


Game of Thrones: The Many-Faced God

by jhaenysflowers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Braime - Freeform, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Feminist Themes, Game of Thrones Alternate Season 08, Game of Thrones Fix-It, Gendrya - Freeform, Jonerys, M/M, Magic, Prophecy, Sad with a Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-18 01:30:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 54
Words: 202,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21519694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jhaenysflowers/pseuds/jhaenysflowers
Summary: ."Only death pays for life. "Game of Thrones Season Eight alternate, starting just after the end of Season Seven. Told through multiple characters POV, focusing on Jon and Daenerys, and the fulfillment of ancient prophecy.  HBO canon supplemented with lore from ASoIaF Series.  A few things/characters were my own ideas, especially concerning the Dothraki and Unsullied.Thank you so much to everyone who reads and especially to those who comment! You are all wonderful and I wish you all  health and good fortune :)This story was written in honor of good Queen Daenerys, the Breaker of Chains,  and is dedicated to Emilia Clarke, the amazing actress who brought her to life and stood by Our Queen to the end.PLEASE no anger/negativitytowards the decisions I made with the story/characters. Constructive criticism always welcome, but just be cool. It could have ended a million ways, right? You can always stop reading, just no anger please!This is a work of fanfiction based on HBO series "Game of Thrones," and George R.R. Martin's "A Song of Ice and Fire" book series. The images I use are sourced from Google.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Gendry Waters, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Euron Greyjoy & Cersei Lannister, Euron Greyjoy/Cersei Lannister, Jaime Lannister & Brienne of Tarth, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow & Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 216
Kudos: 283
Collections: A Song Of Ice And Fire and Game Of Thrones, Best of Game of Thrones Collection, Braime, Game Of Thrones Fanfics, Game of Thrones, Game of Thrones Season 8 left us wanting. Let's fix that!, Jonerys





	1. Character/Chapter Guide

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Game of Thrones](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/536809) by HBO. 
  * Inspired by [A Song of Ice and Fire](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/536932) by George R.R. Martin. 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _An index for tracking your faves through The Many-Faced God... Not totally up to date but more than enough to get you going!_

Hey y'all, here's a chapter index so you can find your favorite characters' scenes more easily!

2 Lists: Major and Minor Characters

*Present: character is meaningfully present in chapter, no POV.

*POV: chapter contains a POV from this character.  
-Note: Whichever chapter is _italicized_ is that characters **first appearance** in the story (POV or Present).

> **_Major Characters_ **

**Arya**  
*Present: _The Lady of Winterfell_

*POV: Three Swords, The Queen's Feast II, Blood of the Dragon II, Dragons and Wolves II, (tbc)

** Brienne **

*Present: _The Lady of Winterfell,_ Three Swords, Here We Stand, (tbc)

*POV: The Queen's Feast I, A Red Dawn I, The Maiden and the Man, (tbc)

 **Cersei**  
*POV: _Queen of the Seven Kingdoms_ , (tbc)

 **Daenerys**  
*POV: _White Harbor_ , The Kingsroad (I, II, and III), Dragons in Winterfell, The Queen's Feast (I and II), Blood of the Dragon (I and II), Here We Stand, Dragons and Wolves II, The Long Night (I), (tbc)

*Present: The Kingslayer, A Red Dawn (II and III), Castle Cerwyn I (mentioned), Dragons and Wolves I, The Long Night (all), (tbc)

 **Davos**  
*POV: Castle Cerwyn (I and II), (tbc)

*Present: _Dragons in Winterfell_ , A Red Dawn I, (tbc)

 **Dothraki (People)**  
*See: Idri, Qhono, Vhago, Khava, Yathi, Tvarro

*Present: _The Kingsroad I_ , Dragons in Winterfell, The Queen's Feast (I and II), Blood of the Dragon I, Dragons and Wolves (I & II), The Long Night (all)

 **Dragons (Animals)**  
*Present: White Harbor, The Kingsroad I, _Dragons in Winterfell_ , Blood of the Dragon I, Dragons and Wolves (I & II), The Long Night (all),

 **Gendry**  
*Present: _Dragons in Winterfell_ , The Long Night (I),

*POV: Dragons and Wolves II, (tbc)

 **Grey Worm**  
*Present: _White Harbor_ , The Kingsroad (II & III), Dragons in Winterfell, A Red Dawn II, Here We Stand

*POV: The Long Night (II, III) (tbc)

 **Jaime**  
*POV: _The Kingslayer_ Present: White Harbor, The Kingsroad (I, II, & III), Dragons in Winterfell, (tbc)and the Man (tbc)

*Present: The Lady of Winterfell (mentioned), A Red Dawn I (tbc)

 **Jon**  
*POV: _White Harbor_ , The Kingsroad (I, II, & III), Dragons in Winterfell, The Queen's Feast (I), Blood of the Dragon (I & II), Here We Stand, Dragons and Wolves (I and II)

*Present: Three Swords, The Queen's Feast II, A Red Dawn (I & II), Castle Cerwyn (mention) (tbc)

 **Jorah**  
*Present: _White Harbor_ , The Kingsroad (I, II, & III), Dragons in Winterfell, The Queen's Feast (I), A Red Dawn III, Blood of the Dragon I

*POV: Blood of the Dragon II, (tbc)

 **Missandei**  
*POV: The Kingsroad (I & III) A Red Dawn (III), Castle Cerwyn (I & II)

*Present: _White Harbor,_ The Kingsroad (I, II, & III), Dragons in Winterfell, (tbc)

 **Sam**  
*POV: _White Harbor_ , The Kingsroad (II & III), Three Swords, A Red Dawn (I),

*Present: Dragons in Winterfell, (tbc)

 **Sansa**  
*POV: _The Lady of Winterfell_ , The Queen's Feast (I), A Red Dawn (II),

*Present: Dragons in Winterfell, The Queen's Feast (II), Castle Cerwyn (all)

 **The North (People/Lords)**  
*Present: _White Harbor_ , Dragons in Winterfell, Castle Cerwyn (II), Here We Stand, (tbc)

 **Theon**  
*POV: _Ironborn_ , A Red Dawn (II), (tbc)

 **The Three-Eyed Raven**  
*Present: _Dragons in Winterfell_ ,

*POV: The Long Night (I), (tbc)

 **Tyrion**  
*POV: _White Harbor,_ Dragons in Winterfell, The Queen's Feast (I), A Red Dawn (I), Castle Cerwyn (all),

*Present: The Kingsroad (I & III),

 **Unsullied (People)**  
*See: Grey Worm, White Bat, Māzmak

*Present: _White Harbor_ , Dragons in Winterfell, The Queen's Feast I, Blood of the Dragon (II), (tbc)

 **Varys**  
*Present: The Kingsroad III (mentioned), _Dragons in Winterfell_ , A Red Dawn I, Castle Cerwyn (all)

 **Wolves (Animals)**  
*Present: _Dragons and Wolves_ (all), The Long Night (I), (tbc)

 **Yara**  
*POV: _Ironborn_ , A Red Dawn (II), Castle Cerwyn I,   
*Present: Castle Cerwyn II, (tbc)

*************

> **Minor Characters**

**Beric Dondarrion**  
*Present: _Here We Stand_ , (tbc)

 **Ellaria Sand**  
*Present: _Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,_

 **Euron Greyjoy**   
*Present: _Queen of the Seven Kingdoms_ , (tbc)

 **Gilly & Little Sam **  
*Present: _A Red Dawn (I)_ , (tbc)

 **Idri**  
*Present: _The Kingsroad (III)_ , A Red Dawn (I), Castle Cerwyn (all), (tbc)

 **The Hound**  
*Present: _The Queen's Feast I_ , (tbc)

 **Khava**  
*Present: Blood of the Dragon I, (tbc)

 **Lyanna Mormont**  
*POV: Here We Stand,

*Present: _Dragons in Winterfell,_ (tbc)

 **Melisandre**  
*POV: _Here We Stand_

*Present: Dragons and Wolves (II) (tbc)

 **The Mountain**  
*Present: _Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,_ (tbc)

 **Podrick**  
*Present: _The Queen's Feast I_ , A Red Dawn (III),

 **Qhono**  
*Present: _The Kingsroad I_ , The Queen's Feast I, A Red Dawn II, Here We Stand

*POV: The Long Night II

 **Qyburn**  
*Present: _Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,_ (tbc)

 **Tormund**  
*Present: _The Queen's Feast II_ , Here We Stand,

*POV: A Red Dawn II, (tbc)

 **Tvarro**  
*Present: _Blood of the Dragon I_ , (tbc)

 **Vhago**  
*Present: _Blood of the Dragon I_ , (tbc)

 **Yathi**  
*Present: _Blood of the Dragon I_ , (tbc)


	2. White Harbor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Daenerys struggles with her grief. Tyrion has a difficult conversation with his Queen. Jon and Sam reunite. Daenerys faces the people of the North for the first time._

**Chapter 1: White Harbor**

The queasiness Daenerys felt had little to do with the rocking of the ship, dodging ice flows as the tide carried them into the Northern port of White Harbor. According to Jon, the slowly rising tide was the safest way to bring a ship into a Northern port, without risking dashing the hull against the great chunks of ice that floated here and there in the water. 

Gazing out the window of her cabin, Daenerys watched one such ice float by, and she tried again to imagine how large it must be. _Certainly larger than this ship_ , she thought. It had been Tyrion's idea for her to travel not in the large, ornate flagship in which she had crossed the Narrow Sea, but in a small, sturdy Ironborn vessel. One small enough to pull directly into port, rather than having to anchor offshore. 

_Not a very grand entrance,_ she thought. _But perhaps that's for the best._ Jon had said as much, when she had asked his thoughts on it.

_"The last Southern monarchs to step foot in the North were Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister,"_ Jon had said, and at that, the point was made. It was no secret that the Usurper had been more interested in grand displays than he was in running his Kingdom, and _Cersei_...

Guilt threatened her resolve in remembering how cold she had been to Tyrion at his suggestion. Riding in a small, austere Ironborn vessel had been his idea; not as a political statement, but a safety precaution. Tyrion had been firm and certain with her－ just as he had been each time before－ that if Cersei were to stage a surprise attack, she would target whatever ship she thought bore Daenerys. The Dragon Queen had only nodded consent, and sent him away.

Her eyes drifted back to the ice float.

If what Jon said was true, about the ice being ten times as large beneath the surface as what showed above, then the piece that drifted by, which looked no larger than a wagon was nearly as large as Drogon. A pang of longing hit her; no mother liked to be long without her children, and Daenerys had not seen hers since they had left Dragonstone. On the voyage to Westeros, she had watched the three of them hunt together in the Narrow Sea. Her eyes closed as the sharp sting of grief hit them again.

Only two hunted now. _Viserion_...

The Mother of Dragons let the grief wash over her like the roll of the tide beneath the ship. For a moment it consumed her, upended her, pushed and pulled her as memories of Viserion flashed in her mind. Then with a soft, desperate gasp, she let it wash away. The cold grip of grief would be back the very next time she thought of him, but she could not afford to let herself drown in despair. The _world_ could not afford her strength to fail now. 

The Long Night was coming, and Jon's forces would not hold back the army of the dead. Millions of lives now depended on her, in ways Daenerys had never imagined they could. Millions of children just as real, just as alive, just as loved as Viserion had been to her.

_I_ _am the Protector of the Realm,_ she thought firmly, _I can neither bend nor break, no matter the strain._ The thought was as lonely and tiring as ever, never more so, especially not in the face of what she knew was coming.

The ice float drifted out of her sight, and as her eyes slid past where it had been, she could see White Harbor growing steadily larger. They would land soon, and she would have to face the cold winds and hard stares of The North. Jon had explained to her, more than once, why the North was so loath to his bending the knee. Three hundred years ago Jon's ancestor Torren Stark, the last King in the North, had bent the knee to her ancestor Aegon the Conqueror at the Trident, and the North remembered.

Turning from the window, Daenerys began pacing the cabin slowly from the window to the hearth and back again, her arms folded behind her. The gown she wore was simple, a warm, fur-trimmed traveling gown of charcoal colored wool, with the skirts divided for riding, and bared about the shoulder to leave room for the thick white overcoat she would don before facing the North. With her eyes on the hearth, Daenerys compared two sides of history: the history of her ancestors, and Jon's.

Aegon the Conqueror had amassed a force that would quash the Northern armies. He had Balerion the Dread, and many thousands of soldiers from The Reach, the Riverlands, the Westerlands, and the Stormlands backing his claim. Even without his sisters and their dragons, there was not the faintest hope of victory for the North, if it came to combat. Rather than face Aegon in an unwinnable battle, Torren Stark yielded, sacrificing his pride for the sake of his citizens. At Aegon's decree, Torren Stark was made Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. The North, however, remembered Torren Stark as the King Who Knelt.

The hearth burned low, hardly any flames licked at the small, blackened husks of wood remaining to the fire. Her steps slowed, and Daenerys turned from the hearth and paced slowly back to the window.

Aegon the Conqueror had made the North kneel, and her father, The Mad King, had made them suffer. Still, she doubted that knowing the North's side of the story would make it easier to handle when she actually faced them. Already she felt burned by the Northerners lack of gratitude. She was risking her life, and her peoples' and her dragons' lives to save them, and yet Jon had been _sure:_ she would find no warm welcome in the North.

Daenerys' pacing had brought her back in front of the window. Again she turned and paced slowly back toward the hearth. Despite their mistrust, the North needed her. If she was their Queen, then _they_ were her people, and they were lost without her. Without her armies, her dragons, her aid, they would all face a fate worse than slavery, worse than death...

Her breath and her step caught as she turned. Hearth to window. When she closed her eyes, she could see the swarm... Desperately, she tried to push the thought out, to focus on her pacing and not to blink. Each time she did, she saw the army of the dead. It was not a memory that went away easily once it pervaded her thoughts.

As she turned, she avoided looking out the window. _Perhaps they will thank me when the Long Night ends and they are not among the dead,_ she thought bitterly. Daenerys had not yet had to rule without the love of her people. _If not love, there is only fear,_ she thought anxiously. _I have learned enough of fear..._

Her pacing stopped suddenly in front of the hearth. The flames had given way, retreated back into the embers that lay in the grate, still hot, but cooling quickly. A deep cold spread through her body, and her arms went around herself of their own accord. With her eyes shut tight, the memories overwhelmed her. The swarm of corpses. The only army larger than hers in the whole of the world. Over a hundred thousand biting, clawing, gnashing, frantic corpses enslaved to the will of the Night King. The foul creature who had slaughtered Viserion.

A soft gasp came from her when that _sound_ echoed in her mind, as clearly as the moment it had happened: the thudding scrape of the Night King's spear piercing Viserion's chest; the surprise and anguish in his last, dying scream; Drogon and Rhaegal's mournful cries as their brother died. _No_... she thought. Her stomach twisted, watching the blood pour from his chest, watching him _fall,_ watching him crash to the frozen lake. _No,_ she thought again _... NO!_ As her child sank, the light faded from his eyes. Jon was screaming at her. _Go! GO! Now, leave!_

Daenerys forced her eyes to open, to return to the present like Missandei had told her she must whenever the past tried to swallow her, but more memories came: memories not yet seen with waking eyes. Things that would be, if the Great War was lost. The Narrow Sea bridged with ice. The army marching across it. Herself, her advisers, her friends, her subjects... everyone she had ever loved or ever saved: all slaves in the army of the dead. _Slavery in death,_ and here she had thought she had seen all the terrible fates the world had to offer. A quiet knock at the door pulled her, gratefully, from her painful reveries.

"Come in," she said, turning quickly and thinking it must be Jon.

Tyrion pushed the door open slowly, almost wishing to let it close in front of him rather than behind. He was not particularity excited for this conversation with the Queen. Her face was as expressive as ever, and he watched expectation fall to hard disappointment.

"Your Grace," he began, turning to set the door firmly closed and latched behind him. "Forgive me for my intrusion, and for my boldness yet to come, but there is something we must discuss before we pull into port."

The Dragon Queen remained where she stood before the small hearth. Her large, keen eyes nearly pinned him in place by the door. Her arms were folded securely behind her back. _She is still angry with me_ , he thought, _and I can't blame her..._

It had been so easy to convince himself that Cersei would join the fight against the dead, if not for goodness' sake then for the sake of her unborn child. It was what _any_ half-rational person would do, and most irrational ones as well, if they were shown hard proof of the end of the world yet to come...

Tyrion forced himself to meet Daenerys' stare. It was nearly as hard a look as the one she had given him two days prior, when Varys had informed them all.

" _Cersei's banners have not been sent North, but pulled back to the capitol. Euron Greyjoy sails East with the Iron Fleet, to ferry the Golden Company from Essos to King's Landing. Twenty-thousand men and some number of war elephants will be waiting for us in the Capitol..."_

For a week they had sailed before that news came, and for all that time, since they met with Cersei in the Dragonpit, Tyrion had been insistent each time his Queen had asked: considering Cersei's pregnancy, and the proof they had given her, he was _certain_ she would honor her promise, and march her troops North to fight in the Great War.

_Her dragon died to prove to Cersei that the threat was real; it was all for nothing... and it was all my idea._ Tyrion took a deep breath and cast his eyes down, suddenly unable to meet her gaze, before crossing the room in quick strides.

"Your Grace, in light of my recent mistakes," he began, carefully avoiding any apologies. The Queen had been clear about what she thought his apologies were worth the last time they had spoken. "I feel I must be more honest than ever, even if it puts me in the middle of a rather... intimate situation."

"What is it, Tyrion?" Her voice was cold iron, her eyes colder still.

Tyrion swallowed, and tried to make his voice sound reasonable. "I know... about you and Jon Snow. Forgive me, Your Grace, but we must discuss it."

"So you've set your pet spider to spy on me, then?" Daenerys had turned to face him fully and folded her hands in front of her plain, charcoal gown. Her face showed nothing, but her eyes blazed like the Wildfire that had consumed Stannis Baratheon's fleet on the Blackwater. It was difficult not to flinch from her fierceness, but he knew she would only respect him less if he did.

"Of course not!" He exclaimed, before lowering his voice to an almost apologetic tone. He cast his eyes to the side, despite himself. "He spies on you on his own..."

Daenerys took a commanding step toward him, her expression growing even harder, if that were possible. Tyrion held his ground, much to his own surprise, though he did raise his hands in front of him, in a placating gesture.

"I was out of my cabin late one night, and I saw him enter yours. A chance sighting, no more. I've not told anyone," he promised. She only waited for him to make his point. "I know I have failed you... but until you say otherwise I am your _Hand_ ," Tyrion explained, trying to make his voice both firm and reasonable. "And as your Hand I _must_ ask you if you planned on telling me about Jon Snow."

Daenerys pinned him with her gaze for a few long moments, but something in her eyes had softened the smallest bit when he said Jon's name. She turned from him and walked slowly across the room to gaze out the window. Silence hung heavy until she answered.

"I did," she said finally, her voice still cool. She turned from the window to fix him under her stare again. " _After_ the Long Night. Jon and I both agreed it would only be a distraction until then. _Especially_ to those who don't approve."

Tyrion took a quick, deep breath before taking a slow step forward, and kept moving closer as he talked. He moved as slowly as when he had in Meereen, when he approached her dragons beneath the Great Pyramid. Tyrion had taken the chains off their necks, and even figuring a dragon was smart enough to know a friend when it saw one, he still felt afraid.

"That was wise of you, to keep it secret until the Great War is won. I would have advised it, if you had asked." He paused, holding her gaze a moment longer than necessary. "I do approve... I had actually hoped for this," he continued, taking some pleasure in watching the surprise on her face. He carefully hid his mirth, especially considering the rest of his thoughts on the matter. He was halfway to her now, still slowly moving closer as he spoke.

"A marriage between you and Jon Snow would ally the North and the South for generations to come. They'd sing songs of the _Dragon Queen_ and the _King in the North_ , coming together to destroy the Night King..."

Tyrion said it all very matter-of-factly, and watched her listen with a cool, expressionless composure. At mention of the Night King, she blinked, and held her eyes shut a moment too long. When they opened, the faintest glisten, bit firmly back, made them shine just a bit brighter, and just a bit softer. If he stood more than two paces away, he would not have seen it. Seeing her so vulnerable made him hate himself for what he would say next.

"...It would be a very happy ending for you both, and for the realm," he continued carefully. Since he had found out about their affair, Tyrion had tried to picture them wed, ruling together as an honorable King and a just Queen. It was a very pleasant daydream, happily ever after was always so tempting, but he knew Jon...

Jon Snow was a Northman at his heart, and Tyrion knew Daenerys did not intend on ruling Westeros from Winterfell or beyond the Wall. "Your Grace," Tyrion began regretfully, but Daenerys cut him off.

"So it is too good to be true," she snapped at him impatiently. "Isn't it?" The glistening of her eyes was being carefully schooled back, but it had not let up any either.

"Your Grace," he began again, his voice reassuring instead of regretful. He closed the rest of the distance to her in quick, confident steps. "In the years I've known you... you have impressed me, intimidated me, inspired me, and surprised me more than I could ever..." He was directly in front of her now, gazing up into her eyes. "Every time I thought I could guess what you would do, how you would react, or what you could _achieve..._ I underestimated you like the fool I am."

Tyrion's heart quickened to see the slightest hint of a smile start on her face. She truly was the most beautiful woman he had ever known, even before all the good he had watched her do for the world. And he had only seen a small part of it. Knowing her better only made her more beautiful to him. _Jon Snow is either the luckiest man alive or the biggest fool that ever was,_ he thought jealously.

Gently, Tyrion reached out with his hand, and his breath caught when she took his just as gently after a brief hesitation.

"You are not a fool to hope for a happy ending, Daenerys Stormborn," Tyrion told her firmly. "If you are are fool for hoping, then you are no more a fool than the rest of us."

Daenerys squeezed Tyrion's hand gently, and felt a true smile cross her face. Of course, she knew she had been hard on him, as hard as his failings had been on her and more. Even now, she could not forget that Viserion would still be alive if it had not been for Tyrion's suggestion to go North... to give Cersei proof... Yet still, Tyrion was devoted as ever to serving her. And yet, she still could not entirely blame him for underestimating his sister. It was only because Tyrion did _not_ bear a wicked mind that he could underestimate a woman as cruel and ruthless as Cersei Lannister. He was a good man, and a good friend to change the warning he had been about to give to words of such kindness, and hope.

Hope had been in short supply, of late. The tears pricked her eyes again, and she wished she could stop fighting and just let them fall. How warm and good it would feel, to lean on her friend's shoulder and let him support her, to let the tears fall freely. To fall apart: just once, just for a moment. What a relief it would be to lay bare her grief, her fear, and her naive, maddening hope that Jon Snow _was_ her true love. Daenerys did not mind that those closest to her saw her as gentle, but neither could she allow them to see her cry. Not even for the loss of a child, let alone for love.

If she was to be the strength of her people, she must never let them see her weak. _I am the blood of the dragon,_ she thought, _and the dragon does not weep._ Still, after the long and tender silence, she had to swallow before she spoke again to keep her voice level.

"Thank you, Tyrion," was all she could say. Tyrion smiled and bowed his head. The ship swayed suddenly, harder than it had been, and forced them to both take a stabilizing step back.

Daenerys' step took her back in front of the window. Outside, the dock not more than a few paces from where she stood. The glass reflected her hopeful expression as it turned nervous, before hardening to the stoic coolness that was the armor of the Dragon Queen. The shouts of orders came from above deck, ropes were being thrown over. The roll of the ship slowed as the haulers began pulling, closing the last of the gap to the dock.

When she looked at Tyrion again, the moment of vulnerability she had felt was gone, yet she could not deny feeling more at ease than she had before he had arrived. Her eyes were dry, and she tried to appear calm despite the nervousness that bubbled just below her skin.

Tyrion gestured her towards the door with a timid, comforting smile. Taking one last look outside before moving past him, she crossed the room in long strides. As she set her hand on the door latch, she paused and turned back.

"I fear that even if I do save them, the North will not love me," Daenerys lamented with her eyes downcast. Looking up suddenly, she locked her eyes to his. "Whether they would love me or not, I _am_ their Queen," she declared, her voice like cold iron again, with none of the warmth it had had just a moment ago. "See to it, my Lord _Hand_ , that the North knows this. Do not fail me again." She held his eyes until he nodded.

After she left, Tyrion poured himself one large cup of wine and drank the whole thing without stopping, not spilling a drop. When he was done, he set the cup down and turned at once, walking quickly through the door after his Queen.

Since the early morning, Jon had been above deck, helping the men keep watch for ice floats. The frigid wind whipped from any direction it pleased, far colder and harsher than when he had left. It stirred the dark brown and black pelt over his shoulders, and sent his long wool cloak flapping this way and that. The sea had not succumbed to the freezing winter as quickly as the land, and a dense fog hung overhead. The blanket of fresh snow covering White Harbor gleamed, despite the thick layer of heavy gray clouds above promising more snow to come. Where snow met sea, glaring white turned suddenly to dark water, bearing no more color than the sky above.

Jon squinted against the snow glare; he had forgotten that the eyes could become unused to it. White Harbor was a bustle of activity, no less so than their ship coming into port. Those with orders scurried about frantically, readying this and that. Dockmen and sailors both were shouting orders to each other. Ropes were being thrown. On shore, only the dock itself was clear of smallfolk. Just past it they leered nervously, crammed tight onto every spare foot of ground in White Harbor. Some even crouched or sat on the rooftops. Jon stood on deck, leaning over the railing that faced the dock, which crept steadily nearer as the men hauled them in. Jon smiled and held his hand up, returning the excited wave of his best friend.

As the ships came into view on the horizon, Sam Tarly tapped his foot impatiently. His whole life, he had tried to master the boyish excitement in him, which had always made him do things like smiling widely, tapping his feet and humming. As a young boy, he had even danced or sang sometimes when he felt excited, but his father had belted him more than once for _"acting like a damn woman, and a fat one at that,"_ and the habits had been beaten out of him long before Sam had left for the Wall.

Shaking his head, he displaced the thoughts. _My father is dead now_ , he reminded himself. _Ashes..._ He felt a bit guilty that the thought felt no more melancholy to him than when he had thought of his father alive.

The late Lord Randyll Tarly had hated his son from the moment he realized Sam had more interest in holding a book than a sword. His father had always been a fairly cruel man. Cruel enough to tell him that if Sam would not join the Night's Watch, forfeiting his inheritance to his younger brother, Dickon, that an "accident" would surely befall Sam. It was hard to muster any love for someone who hated you enough to murder you, just for loving books and being portly. At best, his father had been cold, stubborn and harsh. When Sam had learned what happened, he realized there was little more love in his heart for his brother. _Jon was more a brother to him than Dickon ever was..._

Dickon, unlike himself, had been more fond of fighting than learning. Dickon had grown up with his father's favor, and yet never once had his younger brother stepped between Randyll and Mother, Talla, or Sam when the rages took him. _Still_ , he thought, _perhaps not the end I'd have put to them myself, given the option..._

Sam shook his head again, not wanting to think about his father and brother... burning alive. Both because the brutality of it made him queasy, and because he did not want to give himself the opportunity to mourn them. They would not have mourned _him_ , if he had died. In fact, he was sure that his father would have been glad for it. They had never felt like family, not the way his mother did, or his sister, or Jon.

_Jon's family._ A nervous fluttering took his chest as he remembered again that Jon was not Eddark Stark's bastard, as they had always thought. Jon had been born of the lawful, if secret, marriage between Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, and technically he was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Sam had not told a soul, and he would not. It was Jon's secret to keep... or tell. The only other person who knew was Bran Stark, Jon's younger brother... though Sam supposed the boy had been very explicit in saying he was _not_ Brandon Stark. Sam had begged _The Three-Eyed Raven_ to keep the secret. The boy's response had been as cryptic as it was chilling.

" _Jon has a choice to make, one he doesn't know he yet has. He must make his choice before the world will know the truth of who he is," the boy said hollowly, gazing at the fire in crackling in the hearth._

_"...so, you won't tell anyone?" Sam asked, just confused enough to clarify. The boy turned his bottomless brown eyes to his._

" _No, Sam. This is your secret to keep through the Long Night."_

Shouts, and ropes being tossed pulled him from his thoughts, and Sam realized the ship was nearly docked. His arm shot up, flailing wildly in a wave, even before he caught sight of Jon. His best friend was leaning over the rail of the ship, smiling with his hand raised up high. A few moments more, and the ropes were tied, taught and snug. A wide plank was set from the ship to the dock, and then Jon was striding down it, heading straight for him.

Sam returned the hug with even more fervor than Jon had come in with.

"Welcome home," Sam managed to mumble around the tightness of the hug and the thick, heavy fur of the coats they both wore. Jon pulled back first and kept a hand on Sam's shoulder, his dark eyes gleaming.

"I'm glad to see you, Sam," Jon said, his voice full. Sam nodded with a grin, but already he could not help himself peering over Jon's shoulder, searching the ship and the sky. Jon sniffed a laugh.

"She's waiting just behind there," Jon gestured to the stairs on either side of the upper deck of the ship, "for me to announce her." Sam raised an eyebrow. He had not assumed the Dragon Queen would need anyone's introduction. Jon shrugged.

"It was Tyrion's idea. He thought if I were the one to introduce her... that it might be easier for them to accept her," Jon explained, trailing off at the alternatives. Neither one of them had to mention that any one of the folk on the rooftops could be hiding a crossbow, hoping for the chance to gain a fool's notion of glory.

"Sam." The seriousness of Jon's voice pulled Sam's eyes away from the ship where the Queen waited, unseen. "There's something I have to tell you... Your father－"

"I know," Sam blurted hastily. "So does your sister. The whole realm knows, I think... Cersei sent letters to every Lord and holding in Westeros... I'm alright," he said quickly, sounding perhaps more-so than he truly felt. Jon only looked at him.

"Look... My father was a cruel man, and my brother may not have been cruel himself, but he always stood by my father, even when he'd go after mother and Talla..." Sam trailed off for a moment before firming his voice up. "I'm alright." Jon nodded with sympathy and relief, and turned to face the crowd.

The smallfolk began to lean and murmur impatiently among themselves. Jon watched as they strained to see him better now that he was on the dock. Like Sam, they looked between the docked ship and the sky. Jon turned back to Sam. "We'll have to talk more later," he said.

"Oh, you're right about that," Sam replied in an odd tone.

Turning, Jon stepped up on to the dais that had been brought out and set on the dock. It was not very tall, but high enough that all who had gathered could see him without much difficulty. A hush fell over the crowd immediately, and Jon looked over them... a sea of grim faces, all dressed in grays and browns... staring. Jon took a breath.

"If you don't know me, my name is Jon Snow. My father was Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. When I last left Winterfell, I left as King in the North," shouts from the otherwise silent crowd returned the title to him, but he did not pause, and the shouts died off quickly.

"I was named so, by the Lords of the North. By the _people_ of the North. I did not ask for it. I have never wanted to be a King. It was my honor to accept, because the North is my home, and because the people of the North are _my_ people. And because everyone should have the right to choose the leader that they think best for themselves." A nervous silence filled his pause. Jon saw some of the smallfolk leaning over, whispering to each other.

"I left the North because we needed allies in the fight against the Night King and the army of the dead, or we would be destroyed. The Night King is real. The army of the dead is real. There are more than _a hundred thousand_ of them, and they are coming. If we lose, the entire world will be covered in a darkness that will never end, and each and every one of us will become just another dead soldier to serve the Night King. The North did not have the men, or the weapons to fight on our own, so I went to Dragonstone... on the summons of Queen Daenerys Targaryen," the silence grew tense, more complete. No one whispered to each other. The only sound was the ship gently straining the ropes that held it to port, and the wind blowing.

"And when I left, I felt then as you do now. I was afraid," he admitted, "afraid of the Mad King's daughter, and her dragons." The silence broke as a hushed whisper flew through the crowd. The dragons were common knowledge throughout the world now, but it was one thing to hear of them from a neighbor you know had not seen them. Quite another to hear of them from the man you had once called King. Jon went on without pause.

"The dragons are real. They are her children, and one of them has been destroyed by the Night King, trying to to save us. _All_ of us." The nervous whispering became a fearful chatter. Jon held his hand up and silence returned to the crowd. "We went North to bring proof to Cersei Lannister, to prove the threat was real and beg for aid, and despite our success, Cersei has abandoned us to live or die, without her help. Queen Daenerys has brought her armies, and her dragons here, to fight for the North. She came to fight for each and every one of you, so that you and your children may live to see a dawn after the Long Night."

The crowd mumbled angrily. Some shouted insults. "We never asked her to save us!" one shouted. "Who saves us from the dragons?" yelled another. "What about the Night's Watch?" Jon raised a hand to silence them. It took longer, this time, but eventually they all fell quiet. Jon let the silence hang for a moment.

"I have bent the knee," he spoke loudly and clearly, not a hint of shame or regret in his voice over the gasps and derision coming from the crowd, "to Queen Daenerys Targaryen. The North is not known for its love of strangers, I know, but _I_ am no stranger here! Trust me now, as you did when you named me King in the North. Trust me, as I trust her." He turned towards the ship as he said it.

Sam watched with the eagerness of a child as the Dragon Queen stepped out on deck, looking almost like a Northern Lady except for the silver of her hair. Sam, thinking of Gilly and feeling a bit guilty, closed his mouth as quickly as it had dropped when he saw her. _She's more beautiful than songs or stories have words for,_ Sam thought as she stepped confidently to the edge of the ship and down the gangplank. The Queen held her head high, with a smile that Sam thought looked a bit tight at the corners.

That silver-white Targaryen hair was wrapped in the most intricate version of a Northern braid Sam had ever seen, with two braids going along the sides of her head, meeting in the middle and joining into one, hanging low behind it. A resplendent gown of white fur, thick and warm, was cut through with pinstripes of Targaryen red. About her shoulders was a fur shawl of gleaming white, and a red scarf was wrapped around her throat and tucked beneath the shawl. She wore no crown, as Sam had thought she would, but the thick, silver dragon chain over her shoulder drew the eye in the same way a crown might. Trailing just behind the Queen was her escort.

Sam balled his fists and cheered softly to himself when he saw Ser Jorah Mormont striding proudly behind her. Ser Jorah stood just off the right hand of the Queen. _His_ Queen, for whom Ser Jorah had chosen to live, and endure a horrific, risk-laden treatment, rather than surrendering to certain death by Greyscale. Now, Ser Jorah looked stronger than ever, and more knightly in dark grey, scaled plate armor, with a red Targaryen dragon emblazoned on his breastplate and a piece of red silk tied around his sword arm, just below the shoulder.

Just off the Queen's left hand stood a proud looking woman with smooth brown skin and wondrously large dark eyes. The proud woman was dressed in a dark grey Northern cloak and pale grey fur shawl, with a black gown beneath it and a red scarf, matching the Queen's, peaking out above. Next to her marched a dark man, wearing light leather armor and thick black wool underneath, with spear and shield in hand. 

The man moved with a deadly precision that marked him to Sam as Unsullied. _The Captain of the Unsullied_ , he realized when two more soldiers fell in behind him, dressed similarly but wearing helmets. Two others, Dothraki by the look of their rough-cut leather clothing and copper skin, fell in as well: an old, wise-looking woman, and a fierce young man with a long dark braid and a beard to match.

For a tense few moments the Queen and her entourage crossed the gangplank and approached the Northerners. Her escort－ Jorah, the proud woman, Dothraki and Unsullied－ stood in front of the dais. The silence stretched thinner as Jon reached a hand down, and then the Queen finally stood on the dais, next to Sam's very tense-looking best friend. As she swept a gaze across the crowd, her tight smile faded. Finally she spoke into the silence, her voice strong and clear.

"You do not know me here, in the North," she began in an understanding tone to the crowd. Nobody as much as muttered agreement. "Here, I am known as the Mad King's daughter, the Conqueror, the Dragon Queen," the crowd looked nervously around, and up at the sky, but the dragons were nowhere to be seen. The Queen did not pause. "Elsewhere, I am known by other names." _Breaker of Chains_ , Sam thought. _Mother of Dragons. The Silver Queen..._ She went on before Sam could think of any others.

"Westeros has been torn apart by the war for the Iron Throne. I come to end it. I _am_ the last Targaryen. I am the _rightful_ Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and I swear to you that I _will_ end the tyranny you have known. I did not come here to conquer the North. I came to _save_ you. I came to Westeros to break the wheel that rolls over rich and poor, the wheel that carries villains like Cersei Lannister to better ends than they deserve! All of Westeros is sickened by a fear unjust rule. That fear has all of Westeros ready to see a villain, where others have seen a liberator. I am Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen. The last of the blood of Old Valyria... I do not fear the storm the Night brings, and I have come to ensure that a dawn breaks over the Long Night!"

The Dragon Queen paused; the crowd remained absolutely silent for a few moments. Sam watched her face fall, as her gaze swept over the silent crowd. "You do not know me," she said again, more quickly than before. "But this I swear to you, as your Queen I will use all of my power to protect the North from those that would harm you."

Silence.

The Queen waited with hard eyes, meeting the Northerners cold stare for cold stare. Sam wondered if the Northerners thought they could push her back onto her ship and across the Narrow Sea with those glares.

The silence hung heavier than the fog for a few moments, then broke when a few miles to the East, somewhere beyond the mist, came a soft, screeching roar unlike anything Sam had ever heard. A similar screech, deeper and louder, answered it from the West. _Dragons,_ Sam thought wonderingly, feeling equal parts fear and boyish excitement.

The crowd's stubborn silence shattered as people began twisting every which way, gasping and fretting. Sam held his breath, waiting for the dragons to come crashing through the clouds in the very next moment. There was still no sight of them when he took his next breath, and no more screeches pealed through the fog. Mothers hurried their children away, while men banded together to lead them back to their homes, in groups. All of them cast angry glares over their shoulders at the Queen, and fearful ones to the East or West.

The Dragon Queen, Sam noticed, had lost much of her cold expression and wore instead a rather satisfied smile as she watched the crowd begin to disperse. Taking Jorah's hand, she stepped off the dais, Jon at her heel. Sam watched the Northerners that remained, less than half the number as before, turn their backs and shuffle away, grimmer than ever. Sam's eyes popped wide open when he realized not only Jon, but the Queen and her escort were walking right towards him; she was looking right at him... _Oh Gods, she isn't coming to talk to_ me _?_

"Samwell Tarly," she intoned politely. "I asked Jon not to tell you before I could, but he insisted he would not wait," she held his eyes and spoke without hesitation. "I am sorry for your loss, but I offered your father and brother a choice: to live in my new world or die in Cersei Lannister's... They chose." She did not sound sorry, but her voice was more sympathetic than he expected.

Sam took a deep breath while she was talking, preparing himself to speak without his voice shaking; he even tried to keep his tone light when he replied. "Your Grace... I－ The only thing my father hated more than the idea of a woman's rule, were foreigners," he explained. She smiled coyly at him, as if she thought that clever. "Forgive me Your Grace, but... I would prefer not to speak of it any more..." His composure was beginning to slip, he had choked a bit on the last word.

"Of course," she replied quickly, turning to Ser Jorah. "I believe you've met my General," she said, her tone suddenly as warm as a summer afternoon. Jorah nodded at him deeply, smiling, but did not interrupt his Queen. Daenerys took Sam's hands in her own. Even through her dark leather gloves, her hands were warm. Suddenly, Sam realized he was quite a bit taller than she was.

Her eyes were shining pools of sea-green emeralds looking up at his. Her voice could have grown flowers from ice. "You _saved_ him. Nobody else would have tried, and you could have been banished from the Citadel for it."

Sam lowered his head. "Well... technically Archmaester Pylos did all the hard work. I just followed the instructions."

" _You_ saved him," she repeated more firmly, and more warmly. "I am in your debt. Anything you would ask of me, within my power, I will grant you."

Sam's mouth nearly dropped open again. A _favor_ from the Dragon Queen?

"T-thank you your Grace," he sputtered only a little, bending his knees in what was halfway between a bow and a curtsy. The Queen took her hands back and laced her fingers together in front. She looked almost amused... and expectant, he realized.

"Could I... could I have a little time to think on it?" Sam wondered why her head tilted a bit, almost as if she had expected him to know what to ask for right off. _How would I know what to ask of a Dragon Queen? She's already given us the dragonglass..._

"Of course," she replied curtly. "Take all the time you need. For now, you must excuse me. I would have a few words with my advisers."

Sam nodded, wondering why the warmth seemed to have vanished from her voice by the end. Tyrion Lannister appeared by his side, to his surprise. Sam had heard by now that Tyrion was Hand of the Queen, and had found it strange he had not been in her escort during the address. Sam had not seen him approach. He had been so consumed by the Queen's attention that her dragons could have flown over, and Sam probably would not have noticed. He was glad Gilly was not here, not that she was the jealous type, and not that Sam had any real _desires_ for the Queen... but a man could not _help_ but notice such grace...

"Tarly," Tyrion said to him with a polite nod, a greeting and a dismissal in one. Sam bowed slightly and recused himself from the Queen's presence. Jon and, to his surprise, Ser Jorah followed after him. The formerly-exiled knight slapped a hand to Sam's shoulder as they moved towards the stables, leaving the Queen and her advisers on the dock, surrounded by Unsullied; the Unsullied moved aside with a sudden ferocity to let the men pass through.

"She likes you," Jorah told him approvingly, like that was the greatest honor anyone could hope to receive.

"Well, yes, it seems that way." Sam had forgotten while talking to her, that she was the same woman who had burned his father and brother alive. The taste was not as sour in his mouth as before. He suspected it would be less sour still, the next time she spoke to him. Jon smiled to himself as he walked, but his face fell by the time he spoke.

"It's a five day ride from here to Winterfell in the best conditions," Jon looked up at the heavy gray sky, "and I doubt we'll have the best conditions," he finished mirthlessly as they had reached the stables. Jon grabbed Sam's arm and turned suddenly. "Sam, there's a reason I asked you to meet us here at White Harbor. Do you trust me?"

"Of course I trust you," Sam replied so quickly he sounded surprised. He wondered why Jon needed even to ask. Jon put a hand on Sam's shoulder, leaned in close, and spoke quietly.

"I trust you too. So does the North," he explained. "If the North is to survive the Long Night, and the wars to come, they need to trust _her_." Jon gestured towards the docks.

Sam turned and saw Daenerys, her advisers, and their guard not far behind them, heading for the stables. The Northmen that she passed stared at her with bitter eyes, but she held her head high and greeted each sullen stare with a respectful nod as she passed them by.

A few of the Northern children sneaked out of the houses they had been herded into, and now they hid behind wagons or fenceposts. They watched the Queen pass by warily, but with curious eyes. Sam was impressed to see that the Queen gave each child an endearing smile, her eyes twinkling mischief at them. To the children who did not turn and hide when she looked at them, she waggled her fingers in a gentle, friendly wave. Some of them, the youngest, even gave timid waves and shy smiles in return, before ducking behind whatever feature they hid behind and disappearing back to their houses.

_Quite a woman,_ Sam thought, and not for the first time. He realized he had said the same thing to Maester Aemon, when the old man had first told him about Daenerys.

"I wish Maester Aemon could have been here," Sam said sadly, "I wish he could have seen her. I know he wanted to. Help her, I mean. He told me, just before he died." Sam looked at Jon－ at _Aegon Targaryen_ － or so he had been named at birth, by a mother Jon had both never known, and yet had always been wrong about. Knowing the truth of his lineage was a weight that pulled Sam's heart, and would continue to do so until Jon knew the truth. Sam pitied Jon for the weight of that truth, and did not look forward to freeing himself of the burden. "Aemon told me he was sad for her... the last Targaryen, alone in the world."

Jon smiled, surely remembering sweet, gentle, wise Maester Aemon. _His great-great uncle,_ Sam thought, _and neither of them ever knew it._ The thought made him sad. Sam had known Aemon well, had apprenticed with him for years and held his hand when he died. Aemon had always liked Jon; it would have meant a great deal to the old Targaryen Maester to discover that he and Jon were related, albeit distantly. Sam wondered if somehow, some way, Aemon had known about Jon. The blind old man had been almost _too_ wise, and ever mysterious. Sam had not even known Aemon was a Targaryen, not until the very end of Aemon's life. _He always seemed to know things he shouldn't have_...

"She's not alone," Jorah Mormont replied, pulling him from his thoughts. The old knight had mounted a dark, proud palfrey that towered over Sam. Jorah's eyes were fixed on the clouds above, a dry smile on his face. "She'll never be alone again."

The pale sun that had filtered through the heavy clouds vanished suddenly. High above, the impossibly large silhouettes of two dragons glided without pause or sound over White Harbor, heading North. 


	3. Ironborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Trapped in the belly of one of Euron's ships, Yara struggles against her many bonds. Theon attempts a daring rescue mission._

**Chapter 2: Ironborn**

The ship heaved and rolled beneath a perpetually half-conscious Yara Greyjoy; so accustomed to both the roll of a ship, she would not have noticed if not for the way her bindings pulled tighter against her skin one way, then the other.

On the filthy floor of an iron cage, Yara sat with her legs stretched in front and her arms pinned back behind her. Thin chain links ran from elbows to wrists, and hip to foot. The end of the chains hung high on opposite walls, secured to two rings, one behind and one in front of her. The cage itself was made of narrow iron bars, too close-set to stick a hand through, and not built into the wall of the ship. Not a brig, but a cage. For an animal.

Constantly she tugged at her chains, maddeningly aware that the end was not actually _fastened_ to the ring, but wrapped around it many times. Every tug sent screaming pain up her arms or legs, not to mention her back, but all was numb otherwise.

 _At least I'm on an Ironborn ship,_ she thought bitterly, and not for the first time.

Several weeks ago Euron had set sail for Essos with most of the Iron Fleet. Ever since, Yara had been cocooned in chains on the floor of this filthy cage, in the bowels of one of Euron's smaller ships. Her deranged uncle had taken no chances, when he left to ferry the Golden Company back to King's Landing, not after how many times she had bitten, headbutted, kicked, or thrashed against her bindings. Each time she managed to get a strike on Euron, she had been bound tighter than the last. Now she could not move at all, save to turn her head and wriggle her fingers and toes. _I've snarled myself as well as any thresher in a net,_ she mused emptily.

Euron had offered to free her legs before he left, to leave only her arms chained, with a wide grin splitting his face. " _If you ask nicely, I'll leave your legs undone so you can shit in the corner, like a proper animal. Just ask your old Uncle Euron nicely._ " Yara was not sure yet that she regretted her determined silence.

The chains were never removed. Once a day in the early morning, a guard would come to collect her, dragging her roughly to the deck where she would be hung upside down and dunked into the sea to wash her clean of her own filth. The brief view of the ocean, the feel of the freezing water, rushing around her and smothering her, leaching all the heat from her body and leaving her gasping and shivering for hours afterwards was absolutely the best part of her days. The food they held in front of her face was always the same: the stalest bread on the ship and a little water. She nearly wretched it all back up each time, not for the flavor, but for the humiliation of being so hungry that she ate it out of their hands.

 _Like a proper animal,_ Euron's voice echoed in her head.

 _C_ onstantly the thought of her chains. Every morning after her "bath," the guards rewrapped the ends of her bonds fresh around the rings, destroying any progress she had made with her constant, agonizing pulling. Twice now, the guards had remarked that there were some fresh scratches on a few of the link. Then they reminded her that she would never leave her cage, not unless they dragged her out as a corpse.

There was no light in her cell, not unless the hatch was opened, but she knew it must be the dead of night by the roll of the tide and the quiet of the ship; no muffled voices seeped through the wood at all. Yara did not sleep; her eyes stared open to the pitch darkness, half asleep, half awake, half alive. If they ever did slide shut, it made no difference in what she saw, and she did not notice. Time had lost all meaning, except for the few minutes each morning she was brought above deck.

When she heard the gentle _swoosh_ of the well-oiled hatch opening, she thought she had imagined it. Her sharp eyes had adjusted to near-eternal darkness, and by only the dimmest light that came through from the dark room above, she could see the shape of someone slipping in. The hatch closed gently, and total darkness returned. The softest whisper seemed a shout in the silence she had grown so used to.

"Yara...?"

"Theon?" she croaked, not yet believing despite hearing, and praying to the Drowned God that she had not gone mad. Losing her mind was a certainty, an eventuality, if she was left down here long enough. Man, woman, strong-willed or weak: in the bowels of a ship, after a few months of darkness, madness claimed them all. When Theon did not reply, she coughed out a rueful laugh. _Hearing voices is the first, soon I'll be_ _－_

A flint struck twice before it caught, lighting a small torch. Yara's eyes squeezed shut, and she turned away from the brightness. When the burning in her eyes had subsided enough to open them, the torch was set in a sconce on the far wall. Theon squatted in front of her cage with his face pressed against the bars, and his fingers threaded through the small gaps between them. A moment later, he pulled away.

"How did you find me?" Yara wondered numbly, still half-believing it was madness or dream. Theon began moving frantically about the room, running his hands along the edges of the wall and muttering to himself. There were nearly a dozen ships left behind to guard Blackwater Bay, and she could have been on any one of them. "Theon!"

"I've searched a different ship every night for a week now," he mumbled distractedly. "I was worried he put you in the Red Keep... but I wouldn't have stopped." Theon stopped his searching for a moment and turned to face her. "I wouldn't have stopped looking until I was dead, or I knew you were."

Theon turned quickly away again, needling his fingers into knots and chips in the wood, muttering. "The guards have the key," she said roughly.

Theon did not pause in running his hands over every surface: every trim edge, knick, chip, and knot in the wood. From one such knot, on the ladder leading to the guards' quarters above, he produced a small iron key.

It slid into the lock and turned easily with a soft _click_. The door opened. Theon lowered himself to a crouch, put himself beside her, and began running his hands over her chains.

"How'd you know there'd be a key?" Yara asked breathlessly.

"Ramsey's men hid keys to all the cages," he explained in a hollow voice, his eyes emptying of life while his hands continued to work the chains. "After they saw what he would do to them... if they lost it."

Yara let the subject drop, both because of the look that came into Theon's eyes whenever he talked about Ramsey, like a caged animal long given up on hope of freedom, and because not five minutes ago she had been the same animal.

"The chains wont come free," Theon said after the beat of silence, and moved quickly to the rings to which the ends of her chains were wrapped. " _Shit..._ It'll take me hours to get them off without making noise," he whispered frantically. A groan that would otherwise have been a yell rolled from her throat. Several guards slept directly above her; the only way in or out of the room was through the hatch.

Theon looked like he was about to be sick. His eyebrows were furrowed and his eyes darted frantically between her and the hatch he had entered through. _No_... Yara thought.

"I'm going above to give a signal to the others," he said softly, fear plain on his face. "I can't fight them alone and I _can't_ get the chains free without waking them..."

Yara's voice came as a low growl. "Theon if you leave me down here I swear I'll fucking strangle you to death with these chains."

He nodded in solemn agreement. "I already deserve that much..." he said quietly. "But I won't. I promise," he finished before turning, creeping up the ladder, and disappearing through the hatch. It dropped shut behind him without a sound.

Yara fought the urge to scream and nearly lost. Time, which had been all but imaginary for so long, stretched endlessly before her. Every silent second confirmed again that she would be down here forever, every minute past sharpened the feel of a knife stuck in her gut, right below her heart.

If she heard fighting, she would know Theon had been caught, and that he would be killed. If she heard no fighting, Theon was either sneaking slowly through the ship... or he had abandoned her again. _How long has it been?_

The small torch Theon had left behind flickered once. Still the silence hung heavy. No fighting. No sounds of the hatch opening. Nothing. Just to pass the time and distract her from the stabbing pain in her gut, she counted, but she could not count to a full minute before thoughts crept in.

Fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six... _He should've been back by now..._ Forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine... _The torch is going out, a torch like that would last at least an hour..._ Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three... _He should've left me a way to end it..._ Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen... _He should've killed me, the fucking cockless coward, he should have fucking killed me rather than leave me here..._

The torch burned out, and darkness consumed the room again. _One, two, three_...

How long had it been since the torch burned out? A minute, an hour? _He fucking ran, the bloody fucking coward ran._ And he had left the door _open_. What would the guards do to her when they returned and found the door open? What would _Euron_ do when they told him?

Ever breath came heavier, faster than the one before. It whistled in her throat. She began to pull hard on the chains, barely aware of the agonizing pain it sent rippling through her, all to no more success than before.

The silence wrapped itself around her throat and began to squeeze.

The soldiers above still slept, in the same positions they were in when Theon had crept past them the first time. All of them were Lannister men; Theon could tell by their look alone. They were all too pretty, too fair-haired to be Ironborn. The gold lions on their armor, stored in netting above the cots, confirmed it. A few candles burned, enough in the small cabin to give adequate light. It reeked of rum, an open bottle stood on the small table or floor next to every cot. Some rolled, empty, this way and that as the ship rocked, _tinking_ quietly on the wooden planks.

Nobody moved besides the rise and fall of their chests. Still, Theon crept along carefully, one silent step at a time. Flexing the three fingers that remained to his right hand on the hilt of the dagger he carried, he cracked the door open just enough to squeeze through, after scouting the way forward. He shut the door behind him, propping the latch beforehand, then letting it drop noiselessly into place once it was closed. The hallway was about fifty paces, with a door every ten feet or so leading to another cabin, filled with sleeping soldiers. Only two candles burned on each of walls, alternating sides so they were all the same distance apart. Dim light, but more than enough to see by.

As the door shut behind him－ he winced at the nearly inaudible _click_ of the latch dropping－ Theon closed his eyes and listened. There was no sound except the gentle creaking of the ship, the faint tinkering of empty bottles rolling in the cabin behind him. He made short work of the hallway. His soft boots muffled his footsteps as he took long, slow strides to the ladder at the end of the hall. After her climbed the ladder, he put a hand firmly on the hatch above him. _This one squeaked_ , he remembered. It had not woken anyone before...

Like most of the ships in the Iron Fleet, this ship was newly built, which meant all its hinges were still well-oiled. This hatch, however, led straight to the upper deck, and no amount of oil would prevent the salt from making the hinges stick. A seasoned sailor with a sharp ear might have heard it, even in a dead sleep, but nearly all of those had sailed East with Euron to collect the Golden Company. It was a long voyage to the Free Cities and back, requiring many seasoned sailors, but few soldiers.

The fighting men left behind to guard the Capitol were as war-weary as the rest of the country. With their commander across the Narrow Sea, and the Dragon Queen and her armies marching to Winterfell, the soldiers left behind had embraced the welcomed pause in warfare. Every one of the twelve ships that Theon had searched in the dead of night so far had been the same; he had not yet seen a single guard on duty, below deck, after midnight. Above deck there was one, or at most two guards in the late hours, but they were usually piss drunk or asleep. On this ship, there was only one guard on deck, and he had been sitting down on the far side of the ship when Theon had first crawled over the port rail.

Pushing the hatch to the deck open a crack, and wincing at the noise, Theon found himself staring at a pair of boots. He could not stop pushing the hatch, whoever stood there certainly would have heard it, and would be waiting to see who came up. Thinking quickly, Theon shoved the hatch open to full and all but ran, fumbling a bit for show, to the edge of the ship, making retching noises over the railing.

The owner of the boots was approaching him. Theon stopped retching before the man could realize nothing was actually coming out. Instead, he rested his head on his left arm, on the railing, and turned his head slightly one way then the other, moaning. Nobody else on the deck. His other hand hovered low in front of him, clutching his dagger with the blade hidden between his legs, trembling.

The soldier was behind him now. He slapped a hand on Theon's back, not very hard. "Thought you Ironborn were immune to sea-sick?" the man jested. A King's Landing man, by his accent. Theon kept his head on his arm, and the arm on the railing, making the hollow, breathy moans of one deciding whether more sick was coming, and spit into the ocean twice to give himself some time to think; he had to suck his mouth dry to spit a second time.

Theon pretended to gag on his words. "Don't know a man immune to that piss rum Euron left us with," he said, forcing the Ironborn accent; his own accent was mostly Northern.

The soldier laughed amicably and leaned one arm on the railing next to him, facing him. "Yes, well, the man drinks enough himself to burn the Red Keep. I'm surprised he left any for us at--" Theon twisted and lashed out with his right hand. His dagger slashed across the soldier's throat.

The man's mouth opened in what would have been a yell if his windpipe had not been cut clean through; there was only some soft gurgling as the blood was forced up his throat and out of his gaping mouth. His eyes bulged, one hand gripped the railing, and the other pawed at his throat. The dark liquid gushed, heedless, around his hand. Each heartbeat, and each spurt of blood, came weaker than the last. Quickly his eyes glazed over. Theon wrapped his arms around the soldier from the front, catching him before he could fall over, and set him down gently.

When he came away, Theon was covered neck to breeches in blood. The warmth of it leached into the chilly air quickly, and turned him cold all over.

"I'm sorry," Theon whispered to the corpse. When the corpse said nothing of forgiveness, and only gaped up, with empty eyes at the night sky, Theon found himself angry he had not known his name. He was just a man doing his job, and better than most of his fellows. A soldier, happy to have someone to talk to during the late rounds. He had spoken to Theon with a camaraderie that he had not heard in years... Theon shook his head and stopped staring at the dead man.

"What is dead may never die," he whispered sadly to the dead soldier, and he turned away. A short ways off was the bottom of the rope shroud, which led up to the crow's nest. The rope rungs were loose and at irregular intervals: a telltale sign of hasty craftsmanship. Not the first he had seen since he started his search. He tried to climb quickly, but each one of his mangled hands and feet were missing at _least_ one toe or finger, and were not well suited to climbing rope ladders, let alone poorly-made ones. Every time he shifted his weight, the shroud bucked and swayed beneath him. The breeze was strong tonight, blowing from the North and carrying a deep chill.

It was about a hundred feet up to the crow's nest. Every second he climbed, the hatch on the deck could could open and the body could be found. Theon remembered the kindly amusement in the dead man's few words to him, and he tried to shake them from his head. Theon forced the fingers that still remained to him to grip harder, and climb faster; he forced his feet to cooperate, despite his missing toes, and move more fluidly. Twice he nearly fell, with only the strength of one mutilated hand still grasping the shroud. The strength of three fingers was all that kept him from becoming the second dead man on the deck below.

Finally, he reached the top of the shroud. The long wooden crossbeam cut through both shrouds, to either side, and jutting up from the crossbeam was the wide wooden bucket that served as the crow's nest for a raker this size. Standing directly below the nest, with his back pressed to the mast, Theon listened for a sound beyond the rush of the wind, which had grown stronger with every pace up from the deck. At least he was less visible this high up; none would be able to make out the difference between a dark-clad man and the ship's mast at this hour, on a nearly moonless night.

Five minutes went by, and Theon forced himself to keep waiting. Ten, twenty minutes. Finally, the dull thud of boots shifting places and idly kicking the wall of the crow's nest came from above, barely audible above the strong, ceaseless wind. _Shit..._ Thanking the Gods he had waited, he wondered what to do. If he poked his head up where he could be seen, the man in the nest would have an easy enough time throwing him down to the deck below...

With dragons about, Theon figured, the nest was by far the most important position to keep manned. Meaning the other crow's nests, in other ships, would be manned as well, but he was running out of time to worry about that. Another hour, and dawn would break; soldiers would begin waking, moving about, and changing duties. With the climb down still to worry about, it was far too late to think of a new plan. _I'm no strategist..._ Theon thought desperately. _Not like Robb..._ Then, Theon remembered the first great victory of the late Robb Stark against the Lannisters, at the Battle of the Whispering Wood, and the _diversion_ that had been the root of that victory.

Carefully, Theon pulled his dagger from its sheath. Reaching up, keeping as close to the mast and crow's nest as he could, he tapped the side of the wide, barrel-shaped structure with the butt of his dagger a few times at irregular intervals, until he heard the boots shift again. He quickly pulled his arm back, sheathed the dagger, and before he had any time to think, he hoisted himself up the opposite side of the crow's nest.

The watchman was leaning over the side, listening with his head tilted to one side. He wore no armor, no sigils, just layers of heavy gray wool and a cap. Theon hesitated a moment, poised to slit the man's throat from behind. As the man turned around, Theon raised his arm and brought the butt of the dagger's hilt down between two surprised eyes, _hard_. The watchman crumpled like a rag doll into him. Theon wrapped his arms about the man as he fell into him, nearly sending them both toppling over the edge of the nest and crashing down to the deck below. Pushing forward with all his might, Theon managed to correct the balance and set the watchman down in an awkward, bent-over sitting position.

Fumbling in his haste, he quickly untied a small length of strong, waxed cord that had been tucked in his belt pouch and tied the man's hands behind his back, then fished the extra rags he had stuffed into his breeches out to make a gag. Theon pitied the taste in the man's mouth when he woke, but it would not be any time soon.

Trying to work faster than he could think, he refused to worry about who else might see his signal, besides the Ironborn waiting on shore. There was no doubt that they were watching, but anyone in any of the two dozen other ships in Blackwater Bay could probably see it more easily than his men could. The Ironborn waited on a short peninsula jutting Northward off the Kingswood, only a league or-so South and East of the ship. They had changed where they waited every night, depending on which ships Theon planned to search for Yara.

Groping for the second small torch, tucked into his other sleeve, Theon bent down below the wall of the nest to shield the flint from the wind shear, and the oil-soaked rags sparked it to life on the third try. Standing upright, before he could hesitate, Theon waived the torch in the air above his head three times, then threw it over the edge. The North wind carried it far out past the edge of the ship, before it vanished in the ocean below.

All that was left to do was wait. With his hands cupped around his eyes, to ease the freezing sting of the wind, he refused to blink. Nearly a minute passed, the longest minute he had felt since his first minute with Ramsey, but then he saw a torch wave just once before disappearing. All the breath in his lungs rushed out at once, and he swung his leg over the rail of the nest to begin is descent back down the shroud. The Ironborn on shore were ready to leave at a moment's notice. With nearly a dozen men rowing as quickly as they could, even against the wind, they would not be much longer than Theon would take getting down.

As he swung his leg over the crow's nest, he paused, and stared at the unconscious watchman, finding himself still unable to kill the man. _Killing him won't help Yara,_ he told himself, but he knew it was more than that. The hit would leave the man unconscious for hours, if not longer. Theon swung his other leg over the side. _If he won't join us when he wakes, we'll send him on a rowboat to Gulltown._ With the hoist rope looped around his arm, he lowered himself down to the crossbeam, swung himself onto the shroud and began the slow, rickety descent.

As tricky and time-consuming as climbing up had been, the loose shroud was even more problematic going down. Each time Theon lowered a leg, he had to fumble with his foot to find a rope rung within reach. Sometimes, he would catch a rung too soon and set himself off balance jerking rapidly to one side and clutching with his mangled hands that much harder; other times he would have to reach his foot down low, and rely too heavily on the strength of his seven remaining, and many-times broken fingers for support. Even standing still, the shroud would twist and sway underneath him. The pain in his hands grew quickly from a dull ache to a sharp one, and he was not yet halfway down the shroud.

 _Hold on Yara,_ he thought. _I'm coming back, just hold on._

Yara's breathing had not slowed any. If anything, it had gotten faster, more ragged. Her throat felt like a strong man's hand had been wrapped around it, squeezing tighter and tighter. _Euron's hand_. Desperately she pulled at her chains. The door of her cage had to be shut by dawn, before the guards came back, before they would know to tell Euron she had gotten the door open somehow. _What will he do to me when he finds out the door was opened?_ The thought pulled a pained moan from her lungs, and she yanked on the chains again despite the twisting pain it caused in her shoulders.

Years had passed since she had last cried, but that did nothing to change the sting in her eyes, or to ease the sensation of being choked, or to calm the hot pounding of blood in her ears. Rage consumed Yara as she heaved each breath, staring at the empty black spot where the torch had once burned. Every time she thought of Theon, the hand gripped her throat tighter. _Coward._ It was the only thought she could hold on to. _Fucking coward._ The hand gripped tighter. Each breath was a slow, silent gasp in, then a low and ugly moan out.

_Coward..._

Yara inhaled deeply, ready to scream her heart out, in case Theon was still somehow on the ship. Finally, she had accepted that she would never escape this place. Eventually she would die here, in this cage, covered in her own filth, weeping like a child. Her body would probably be thrown into the sea, where it belonged. They would kill Theon too, if they found him. They had to kill him.

"WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!"

The scream she had been ready to let loose collapsed in her throat, turned into a gasp, then a sob. Then came the sounds of boots, thumping down along the edges of the ship. The guards above her head, stirring slowly at first, then scrambling and shouting.

The Ironborn war cry came again, louder now, from inside the ship.

"WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!" Yara yelled back, though it came out more like a whispering screech than a battle cry. She coughed a few times, painfully. Dimly, she heard the shouts of men meeting in battle. Bodies dropping quickly, thumps of different volumes coming from all different parts of the ship at once.

"WHAT IS DEAD MAY NEVER DIE!" Yara screamed again, her voice had returned to its husky, deep boom. The hatch opened, light and vision returned, and a Lannister solider dropped down. The soldier held a long knife in his hand, wet with blood and pointed at her. Taking in the door of the cage, standing open with her still chained up inside, he took one threatening step towards her, before an arrowhead exploded out of his eye socket.

The soldier took one last jerking step forward, his remaining eye rolling wildly, and his mouth twitching open and closed. The knife he held was still pointed at her, even if his eyes were not. The dead man began to pitch forward. Above him, through the open hatch, she saw Theon crouched with a bow in his hand. He lowered his bow and dropped down. Without hesitating Theon moved to the rings and pulled the chains free.

The iron links clattered loudly, as they always did when the chains were pulled free. Loud and unpleasant: it was the most beautiful sound Yara had ever heard.

When the lengths had been pulled through the rings, Theon came over to where she was and dragged her from the cage, still wrapped in irons. Her borhter undid the chains as quickly as they could. The chains loosened slowly at first, then all at once slid off and piled onto the floor. Her arms fell from their pinned-back posture for the first time in weeks, and choked moan came from her throat. It was agony, and ecstasy at the same time.

Free as they were, Yara could not raise her arms. They hung limp at her sides, halfway between numb and on fire, with the pain worsening by the moment. Theon went to work undoing the chains around her legs. By the time her legs were free, blood was rushing like fire into long-numb feet. Yara bent her legs for the first time in weeks. Ecstasy and agony. Every bit of her that had been chained now pulsed rapidly with her heartbeat in odd spots. Theon was crouching next to where she sat on the ground. One of his arms went around her waist in effort to pull her up.

"I'm sorry I left you--" Yara headbutted him as hard as she could.

Theon fell back with a startled grunt, then lay still on the floor with his hand on his face. His upper lip was split and bleeding. Slowly, Yara laced her fingers through outside of the cage and pulled herself up. It took her almost a minute to stand. Agony. And ecstasy.

After a few minutes of holding herself up, while tremors racked her body, she was able to release the cage and take an unsteady step towards her brother. Theon still lay on the floor, motionless since she had hit him, and watching her like she was going to start kicking him, just to practice the motion.

Still shaking, she reached a hand down to him. The effort of moving her arm even that much sent a spasm through her shoulder. Theon grabbed her arm at the elbow; he pulled himself up without putting any real weight on her.

"They'll have heard that," Yara gestured vaguely to the other ships that lay beyond the walls surrounding them. "Best weigh anchor, Captain. It's a long way to White Harbor."

Theon's eyes widened slowly, then he smiled. A fresh stream of blood dripped from the split in his lip. 


	4. The Lady of Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sansa reads an unnerving message from Jon. Arya and Sansa discuss family matters. Brienne makes a surprising announcement._

**Chapter 3: The Lady of Winterfell**

As the flame consumed the last corner of the raven's scroll, Sansa wondered how many scrolls had been destroyed in this very hearth, which for three hundred years had burned in the Lord and Lady's chambers of Winterfell. The fire was never allowed to go out; it was as much a part of Winterfell as the stones in the walls.

Three times Sansa had forced herself to read the scroll, memorizing every word and hoping she had somehow misunderstood. Watching the last corner of the scroll blacken and vanish, she wished what was coming would disappear with it. _Who_ was coming.

 _Wishes are for little girls with stupid dreams,_ Sansa reminded herself harshly as she turned from the fire.

She moved to the window and gazed outside as the snow fell thickly and gently over the Godswood. The shadows of the trees stretched in the dwindling twilight. Bran was not in the Godswood now, as he usually was. Unless specifically summoned, the boy would only be found at the base of the weirwood tree, or his bedroom after nightfall. Arya was behind her, sitting on a bench by the fire and playing a game with her knife: she would balance it on her hand for a moment, then toss it up in a random direction and catch it on the top of her other hand, balancing it across the top until it was stable as before. Sansa had long since given up asking her to stop, since she realized Arya had never once dropped the knife.

"Jon is heading North up the Kingsroad from Whiteharbor," Sansa began hollowly. She did not wanting to finish the sentence. Steeling herself, she turned her gaze from the window to look at her sister as she went on. The words made a pit in her stomach.

"With Daenerys Targaryen, seven thousand Unsullied soldiers, the largest Dothraki horde the world has ever seen, and two fully grown dragons... Jon said that we need to _trust_ her." The word left a bad taste in her mouth.

"I always wanted to see a dragon," Arya replied in that annoyingly neutral tone she always used now, not taking her eyes off the knife game.

"I believe you'll like it far less than you thought, after they start burning Winterfell," Sansa replied curtly. "Need I remind you that Daenerys is the Mad King's daughter?" Arya did not look away from her knife game. Sansa pressed on. "Am I the _only_ Stark who still remembers that Aerys Targaryen burned our grandfather and our uncle alive?"

Arya tossed the knife up over her head and caught it on the back of her hand in front of her chest, then tossed it again, back the other way.

"I thought she was coming to fight with us," Arya replied levelly, eyes fixed on the knife as she tossed it. "Everything I've heard says the Dragon Queen accepts surrender. Jon's bent the knee," Arya finished simply, as if that settled the matter.

"Yes. Jon has bent the knee," Sansa agreed, turning to gaze back out the window. The rest of her thought went unvoiced, and she had made _certain_ that nothing in her tone had indicated there was more to the thought at all. An old habit, learned from many hard lessons she had endured, and especially from her time spent with Littlefinger. No matter who you were talking to, or how much trust you place in them: _always_ keep your most dangerous thoughts to yourself.

The soft sounds of the knife tossing game had gone silent, and Sansa cast her eyes back to her sister. Arya was standing now, her back straight and her eyes cold. Still as stone.

"That would be treason, Sansa," Arya growled softly.

Keeping her face neutral, Sansa looked back out to the Godswood. _How does she always know?_ Nobody else had been able to tell her truth, from her lies, from her half-truths in years. After so many years of practice, Sansa had even managed to trick Littlefinger, whom she considered to be the foulest, possibly the most cunning man she had ever met, and certainly the best liar... Frustration aside, Sansa knew trying to deny it would be pointless. Taking a slow, nervous breath, Sansa pressed on.

"Jon is not _King in the North_ anymore," she explained bitterly. " _I_ am the Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North." Bran had denied his claim enough times, publicly and privately, that everyone had finally accepted it. "It isn't _treason_ if Jon isn't our King..."

Arya stalked across the room quickly and slapped her across the face, hard. Sansa nearly staggered back with the force.

"Arya!" Her voice jumped up high like it used to when they were children, back when her younger sister would sneak up behind her and pull her braids. Sansa lay a gloved hand on her cheek, glaring. Red crept into her face, both from the force of the slap and from the embarrassment it caused her.

"Jon is our _family_. Mother, Father, Robb, Rickon, even _Bran..._ They're all _gone_ now, do you understand that? You may not trust this new Queen, but you should know by now to trust your _family_. If Jon told us to trust her, he has a reason."

 _A reason,_ Sansa thought distastefully. Unable to help it, Sansa heard Littlefinger's rasping voice echo in her mind. The next thought came to her mind without any effort. 

_What's the_ worst _reason the Dragon Queen could have for marching her armies to Winterfell?_

Sansa said nothing, and Arya held her in a fearless, level gaze. Regaining some of her composure, Sansa took her hand from her cheek and steeled herself again.

"If Jon trusts the Dragon Queen it's only because he's too much like father," Sansa began. Arya's eyes narrowed. It only made Sansa's voice grow more heated. "Trusting the wrong people killed father, and mother, and Robb and everyone I have _ever_ cared about!"

A strange look appeared on Arya's face, before Sansa could dissect it Arya had wrapped her arms around her. Sansa went rigid for a moment, unsure what to do, before her arms went slowly around Arya. It still felt strange, to be touched... to know it was safe.

"You've learned more than I have of trusting the wrong people," Arya murmured sympathetically before pulling back. "But trusting the _right_ people is the only thing that will keep us alive now. If we win the Great War, it will be because we trusted our brother, and because Jon trusted the Dragon Queen."

"I..." Sansa turned her face away. "I cannot trust someone I have never met," Sansa said uncertainly as she turned her gaze away from Arya. A knock on the door cut their conversation short.

"Come in," Sansa commanded immediately, her steely composure back in place. Arya had already returned to the bench and resumed her knife game, as if nothing had passed between them.

The door opened, and Brienne of Tarth stepped through it. The warrior woman's posture was as rigid as ever, but her face was tight and drawn at the corners. Brienne shut the door behind her and bowed quickly.

"My Ladies, forgive me for my late intrusion but there is something of importance I must discuss with you both."

 _Great importance, by her tone..._ Sansa thought nervously. "What is it, Brienne?"

Only half a moment's hesitation before Brienne all but spit in her rush to get the words out. "Jamie Lannister has just arrived at the South Gate. He says he's come to fight for the living, and he has confirmed our suspicion that Cersei's troops will not. Ser Jaime also wanted to make sure you knew that the Golden Company will arrive in King's Landing soon, with twenty-thousand swords, and war elephants."

Arya almost dropped the knife, but she grabbed it with the opposite hand and threw it hard at the bedpost, where it stuck buried an inch into the wood.

"You spoke to Jaime Lannister?" Sansa asked in a dangerous voice. "Without bringing him to me first?" Arya only stared with narrowed eyes at Brienne.

"Ser Jaime found me," Brienne explained. "I only heard what he told me before I had him sent down to the dungeon... He awaits to speak with the Lady of Winterfell... Please my Lady, I believe he truly wants to help－"

"Help Cersei end the threat of the Dragon Queen, and _me_ , and _Arya_ and _Jon_ and _anyone else_ Cersei wants dead," Sansa finished for her, growing angrier with every word. "You are a woman of honor, Brienne, _how_ can you defend a man like _Jamie Lannister_?" Sansa paused a moment and closed her eyes; when she opened them her voice was ice. "I will not see him, and neither will you. Let him rot in the Winterfell dungeons where he belongs. If that is all, Brienne." Sansa had been certain Cersei would make a play in the North before the Great War was over, she just did not think it would be so... transparent. _A diversion,_ Sansa figured.

Brienne started to turn and stopped. "Lady Sansa, please, I _know_ there is honor to be found in him yet. I... know him. Many times when I was looking for you both, Ser Jaime helped me. He didn't have to, and I imagine Cersei would have executed him for treason if she knew the ways he had helped me, and－"

"You are dismissed," Sansa commanded, turning away. Brienne cast her eyes down as she nodded and left without another word. When Brienne was gone, Sansa began pacing the room. Arya sat still as a statue on the bench, but her eyes watched Sansa's path.

"You see? I thought I could trust Brienne..." Sansa fretted in a seamless continuation of their earlier conversation. "But it seems she is willing to place _her_ trust in Jamie Lannister." The name was a foul curse on her tongue.

Arya stared for a moment. "Brienne was telling the truth," Arya said matter-of-factly. "Nobody is the same person they were when the war started." Sansa shot her a look that could have melted iron, but Arya continued without pause. "When the _dead_ pour over the walls of Winterfell, it won't _matter_ who he's been sent here to kill, Sansa. We need every fighter we can get in the Great War. I heard the Kingslayer can still fight better than most, even with one hand."

 _She sounds... impressed,_ Sansa thought, appalled.

"Name one person you've ever seen truly change for the better," Sansa challenged.

"The Hound."

Sansa froze in her pacing, mid-step, just in front of the window facing the Godswood. Somehow she felt unable to turn and face her sister. The thick snow rained softly outside in the darkened Godswood. The sky above had lost the last touch of light. 

"You know it's true, Sansa. You saw it as much as I did."

"Please leave Arya," Sansa commanded stiffly, eyes locked on the Godswood.

"Will you not go down and speak to him yourself?" Arya asked, and before she had finished, Sansa whirled to face her.

" _GO_."

Arya met her eyes silently for a long time before bowing deeply.

"As you command, my Lady," Arya replied. Sansa turned away, and waited for the door to bang shut, but heard nothing. When she looked back, the door rested silently in place, closed. Arya was gone.

Alone at last, Sansa continued her pacing. Her body and mind both ached with tension. When the bruising on her feet became unbearable, Sansa collapsed on the feather bed. By then the moon was nearly set; soon the pale gray of dawn would leak into the sky. The stone ceiling returned her blank stare. 

No sleep would come to the Lady of Winterfell that night, and hardly any more in the nights that came until the Dragon Queen, and her armies, and her dragons marched on Winterfell. 


	5. The Kingsroad (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jon and Daenerys arrive at Castle Cerwyn to find the Kingsroad Gate closed before them. Tyrion makes an observation. Missandei translates for Daenerys. House Cerwyn witnesses the power of the Dothraki screamers._

**Chapter 4: The Kingsroad (I)**

It had been six days of hard riding from White Harbor to Castle Cerwyn, and even though Jon had spent much of his life atop a horse, trekking over snow and ice, he was far past beginning to feel the wear of travel. The insides of his thighs burned from the time spent mounted, and the skin of his face felt as dry as parchment, and just as inclined to rip. Ice storms had besieged their camps every night. The North Wind blew without pause or mercy, and stronger every day.

The closed gate of Castle Cerwyn, a league or so ahead of them, shut out any joy Jon would have felt to have arrived there. The gate itself was pure iron; the stone Gatehouses to either side of it were twenty paces tall, with long, rippling sheets of dull ice covering the stones here and there.

 _The gate should have opened by now_ , Jon thought again, more nervously than before. There was not any more time to wait, and Jon knew he would have to say _something_ soon, no matter how much he dreaded to face the reality of it.

Silently, Jon and Daenerys waited in their saddles side-by-side, with their most trusted allies just behind them, which, Jon knew, did not include Varys. Behind them, Jorah, Missandei, Grey Worm, Tyrion, Ser Davos, and Sam were also looking drained from the hard travel, but each tried to look diplomatic and serious as they continued to await reception outside the Southern gate of Castle Cerwyn. Even the Dothraki lieutenant, Qhono, seemed weary of the road.

Nobody had spoken in some time. The Kingsroad Gate－ through which they would all have to pass to reach Winterfell－ stood before them, returning their silent stares. The stables, which they had passed by earlier, had been _bustling_ with soldiers, but not a single man stirred on or near the walls of the Castle, or the Kingsroad Gate.

Jon pulled back on the reigns as his great black destrier tried again to make for the stables, which the Northern-born animal knew to be just East of where they stood. All the horses had grown frisky from the near-hour of waiting. The spirited white mare Daenerys rode was pacing in place, lifting its dark hooves and setting them back down again. The mare nickered often, and tossed her snowy white head, snorting, but the animal did not deign to take a step out of place.

The Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea held the reigns in one hand and held that hand still; she kept the mare in position with only her legs. It was not until Jon saw how his Queen handled a horse that he realized his riding was like that of a child's. Whatever Daenerys rode, be it horse, dragon, or himself, Daenerys maintained complete control with apparent ease. The appreciative stare he had been giving her was cut short.

"How much longer?" Daenerys asked suddenly, her voice sharp. Jon frowned, unsure how best to respond. House Cerwyn was not known to make _anyone_ wait long to pass through the Kingsroad Gate, let alone the son of Ned Stark and the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

"I don't know," Jon replied, trying not to grimace as he met her eyes.

"It seems Lord Cerwyn is unwilling to receive you, Your Grace," Tyrion declared quietly. The Hand's tall chestnut pony stirred beneath him.

Jon grimaced, despite himself. _I should've said something sooner_... Tyrion was stating the obvious, but Jon had not wanted to be the first to say it aloud. Nobody had.

Daenerys' face hardened; her chin came up as her eyes narrowed, fixed not on the Gate before them, but the Castle itself. _There is no time for this,_ Jon thought desperately. _Bran saw the Night King and his army at Eastwatch, if they make it past the Wall..._

"Your Grace," Jon implored, swallowing when the severity of her gaze turned to him. "I have known Cley Cerwyn my entire life. He was among those to name me King in the North, let me ride forward alone. He will meet with me."

The snow glare illuminated her virid eyes, streaked with gold in the light; Jon loved so much to lose himself in those eyes whenever they could find a brief moment alone. What he thought most striking about her eyes was the truth that emanated from them－ the pure and unfettered honesty of her emotions.

Fury poured out of those eyes now, and they bored into his own for several moments. Finally, she gave him a short nod as she returned her scrutiny to the castle. Without waiting another moment, Jon urged his horse forward to a run and closed the gap to the gate.

When Jon pulled his mount to a halt, the door to the West Gatehouse tower opened and shut again quickly as a young woman slipped through it. Jon did not know her, but certainly she was a Northerner by the heavy brown furs she wore about her. A commoner, by the plain cut, and worn look of the leathers. The gaunt paleness of her face was accentuated by the darkness of her hair, and the shadows beneath her eyes. Though Jon had never wanted or asked to be named a King, he was still taken by surprise when the woman spoke without any introduction. She held her hands behind her back, and her eyes were firmly downcast.

"My Lord Cerwyn will allow your passage North at the urging of his sister, Lady Jonelle... but no more," the envoy explained in a curt, nervous tone. Jon's eyebrows furrowed. They had not even planned to stop at Castle Cerwyn, not with Winterfell so close...

Jon took a slow breath before he replied, not trying to argue with a messenger but unable to simply accept such an unpleasant outcome. Though there had been no plan to stop at Castle Cerwyn, honor bound him to tell his Queen the whole truth... and this was a deliberate slight that Daenerys could not, and would not take lightly.

"If I could speak to Lord Cerwyn alone－"

"My Lord Cerwyn said to tell you..." The envoy gulped and averted her eyes, then spoke quickly, her voice brittle with the volume she used. "My Lord wishes you to know that not everyone is so eager as the B-Bastard of Winterfell... to hand the North over to foreign invaders. My Lord bids you to tell your... f-foreign whore that House Cerwyn stands _Honed and Ready_." Each word out of her mouth sounded practiced. A message that had been dictated to her, sent with her, and recited by her.

 _Honed and Ready_. The words of House Cerwyn, as _Fire and Blood_ were the Targaryen's. Unable to stop himself, Jon turned halfway in his saddle to look back at his Queen, waiting less than a league behind him. Even from this distance, he could feel her gaze fixed on him. Grimacing, Jon turned back to face the messenger.

"You don't want to do this," Jon pleaded. " _Please_ , just tell Lord Cerwyn to meet with me, before..." Jon trailed off and looked away; he did not know what would happen now.

The messenger's face twisted. The furrow of her brow deepened; her eyes squinted, and her mouth tightened as if she were in pain. Suddenly, she darted a few steps forward, and pulled something from the folds of her cloak. Clutched in her hand was a small, white cloth bundle. Jon had to lean down a bit to hear her, when she spoke next.

"Lady Jonelle sends her thanks to the King in the North, for your courage in the Great War, and sends a gift... for our new Queen." Jon took the cloth bundle. It had not been out of the woman's hand a moment before she turned away, and without looking back, shot back through the small door.

Jon's jaw ached from clenching by the time he reached the Queen and the rest of their allies. As he pulled his horse to a halt, Jon heard the familiar sound of ice splitting and cracking under strain, and the gate over the Kingsroad began to lift. Daenerys looked pleased for a few sweet moments, before Jon began to speak.

"Lord Cerwyn will allow us to pass through... but he has refused us guest right." Jon explained miserably. "The messenger girl looked scared half to death... she said that House Cerwyn stands _Honed and Ready._ "

Daenerys looked at Tyrion, her face implacable, and the Hand straightened himself in his saddle before he replied.

"But... we weren't _asking_ for guest right... Even if we were, the Cerwyns have never refused anyone from your family before. House Cerwyn is sworn to House Stark!" The chestnut pony that Tyrion rode stirred beneath him, sensing his rider's unease.

"Do you think I don't know that?" Jon barked. "Before I left, Cley Cerwyn named me King in the North. Now, he will not as much as come out of his Castle to meet with me!" Jon turned his attention back to Daenerys, who was giving Castle Cerwyn a cold, calculating look. "Your Grace, please, there is more. Lady Jonelle bid the messenger to give me thanks for our efforts in the Great War, and offered you this. Lord Cley has always been a stubborn fool, but his sister is little more than a child. I know her to be kind."

Jon held out the small cloth bundle the messenger girl had given him. The Queen pulled her eyes away from the Castle reluctantly, to rest suspiciously on the gift. At first it seemed as though Daenerys would refuse to take it. She glared at it a few moments, then reached forward and took the cloth into her hand.

The white cloth fell away easily to reveal an ornately fashioned, and freshly polished silver comb. The teeth were long, slender, and dulled at the tips: designed to be worn in the hair as a piece of jewelry. The top part, above the teeth, was expertly fashioned to resemble the head and chest of a dragon, with its wings stretched out to either side. Hundreds of tiny garnets nestled in the silver dragon's skin. 

Jon watched as quietly, and intently as all the others did, while Daenerys turned the comb over in her hands slowly a few times. Finally, her eyes snapped East, and a slow smile spread across her face.

Decidedly, Daenerys slid the teeth of the comb into the silver hair of her two-fold Northern braid, which met together at the back, spiraling together in a circle.

"Your Grace," Tyrion began. "A fine gift it may be, but if you intend to rule the North you _cannot_ allow Lord Cerwyn to refuse you this way... not without any consequence."

"Tyrion is right," Jorah interjected. "Something must be done."

"Yes," Daenerys said in a voice too calm for the fire Jon saw in her eyes. The spirited white mare she sat atop spun, so that the Queen faced her allies instead of the Castle.

" _Zhey quoi qoi,_ " she called.

" _Sek, Khaleesi_?" The Dothraki lieutenant urged his enormous red stallion forward a few steps. Missandei, sitting atop a dark and shining chestnut beside Qhono, cleared her throat loudly and gave him a stern look. Qhono's lessons had not gone on very long, but Missandei was sure he knew how to say "Yes," in the Common Tongue. Qhono cleared his throat.

"Yes, _Khaleesi_?" Qhono corrected as he fidgeted in his saddle.

While Daenerys spoke, Missandei translated the Common Tongue into Dothraki, without looking away from her Queen. Daenerys had that _look_ upon her, a look Missandei had seen on her Queen before, many times: a proud look of brilliance and certainty.

"Qhono," the Queen began, "there is a large stable just East of here. Go there and claim every last one of Lord Cerwyn's horses for the _khalasar_. We shall make good use of them in the Great War, and in the wars to come. Take as many men with you as you require."

The Dothraki's eyes lit up, and an excited grin cut across his face. The red beast beneath him stirred to the side and nickered, channeling his excitement. Red stallion and man both grew still, as the Queen urged her white mare forward, closing the last of the small gap. 

"You will tell your Riders to kill _no man_ who does not raise his weapon first..." The Queen's voice had taken an iron edge. "And if _any_ of you as much as _touches_ a woman or child, you _will_ be made example of. Is that understood?" From somewhere beyond the clouds, the dragons shrieked.

Qhono swallowed and averted his eyes. "Yes, _Khaleesi._ " The great red stallion wheeled South and carried Qhono into the thick of the Wolfswood, where the rest of the _khalasar_ had amassed.

The stables South of Castle Cerwyn were nestled in a small bit of cleared land, completely surrounded by the Wolfswood. Two thousand horses, saddled beneath as many men, paced about anxiously after half a day of waiting. The thickly set trees of the Wolfswood squatted everywhere around them, everywhere except the road and the stable grounds themselves. House Cerwyn was known for its trade, not its strategic location in times of war. The stables would be easy to ambush. Every soldier stationed to hold them knew it.

Every fighting man had been sent to the stables, to stand _Honed and Ready_ for the battle to come. The Queen and her unimaginably large army had arrived over an hour ago, and yet there was neither sight nor sound of the dragons.

"Maybe she don't have dragons after all," a young soldier put forward hopefully, fighting to reign in his mount.

"Aye, that. I heard the dragons are just a figure of speech," another replied, even younger. His boyish head was too small for his helmet.

"Quiet, boy," an officer growled as he happened to move past, making his rounds to all his men. "You heard well as I did what happened in the Reach. Men were cooked in their armor. Burned to _ash_ , like it were nothing." The soldiers grew quiet, and averted their eyes.

Every man jerked upright when he heard a pair of screeches drift through the clouds. All the horses nickered nervously. The men atop them twisted in their saddles, searching frantically and listening. Anyone who spoke was shushed quickly by his fellows, but the sound did not come again, not even after most of an hour passed. Some began to speculate that it had been wolves that made the sound, or the North Wind in the trees, or perhaps an avalanche somewhere far off... but even those who suggested such alternatives did not sound convinced.

It had been a long, tense day of waiting for a battle that did not seem as imminent as they had expected this morning, but the officers maintained that there were still hours of daylight left. Most of the soldiers remained certain that sound could not have been wolves, the wind, or anything else besides dragons.

A new sound came. Not from the sky, but drifting faintly through the trees the Wolfswood. A strange lilting, sounding something like the distant howling of the enormous wolf pack that had taken root in the forest, but the sound was too high... the lilting too fast to be wolves. "Screamers!" Someone shouted, and a nervous commotion swept through the men.

"Make ready!" Officers shouted. "Hold your ground!" The shrewd eyes of all the soldiers bulged wildly, catching their first glimpse of what had come for them.

The first of nearly ten-thousand Dothraki screamers burst from the forest's edge. The strange, copper-colored warriors rode at full tilt, each one letting loose a wild, lilting howl. High above their heads, the Dothraki held curved swords, gleaming wickedly in the harsh afternoon light.

"Hold your ground!" The officers yelled. "They wear no armor! Archers, ready! Hold!" Armor or no, the Cerwyn soliders were outnumbered five to one. The dragons shrieked again, but remained out of sight. Even over the pounding of thousands of hooves, the roars of the dragons were thunderous. The soldiers looked about desperately, the horses beneath them wheeling, but the dragons were nowhere in sight.

"Courage!" The officers shouted while fear spread through the ranks, quick as fire in a drought. The dragons screamed again, louder, and the horses beneath the soldiers fought their reigns, rearing and screaming.

One-by-one, the soldiers broke formation, riding hard towards the safety of the Castle, but the first few dozen deserters were soon turned around. Another ten thousand Dothraki screamers poured down the road, through the trees to either side, cutting off their escape.

"Hold the line!" The Cerwyn Captain shouted. "Hold! Courage!" Yet unseen, the dragons wailed again, deafeningly close. In the gray overcast above, a jet of fire erupted suddenly, and every man below saw the beasts' shadows. Impossibly large, winged nightmares, circling above just out of sight.

More soldiers broke. One-by-one the line was broken, abandoned, and within seconds the line was lost to utter chaos. The officers had stopped shouting, and ran with the rest of the men. Some rode West, some East towards the untamed Wolfswood. No matter what direction they fled, inevitably the Cerwyn men yanked their mounts back around.

More and more Dothraki flooded from the trees, ululating madly, their curved blades held high. Thousands of them poured from the wood, from every direction. Within seconds of the fire that had erupted from the clouds, the clearing was overrun.

At least sixty-thousand screamers converged, and formed a great rotating circle around the two-thousand Cerwyn soldiers. The ring they formed drew tighter, gradually herding the panicked soldiers and their horses into a tight knot in the center, until eventually the closest of the Dothraki rode only a few paces from the outer edge of Cerwyn men. One of those soldiers, an officer, lunged forward with a cry, sword upraised. "Honed and Rea－"

The screamer nearest to him lashed out with his curved blade, and the officer's head hit the ground. The screamer who had done it moved along within the rotating ring, and was quickly lost to the fray. The officer's headless body remained atop the horse. It sagged this way and that, threatening to fall as the terrified animal beneath the corpse merged into the rotating ring; both were quickly lost to sight.

Swords, axes, and bows clutched by the soldiers began to drop in the same way the line had broken: one-by-one, then all together.

When the last of the weapons had hit the ground, the screamers closest to them slowed to a halt. The ceasing spread out to the rest of the enormous ring, until each of the fifty-thousand Dothraki surrounding them was still. A sickening quiet overcame the pounding of thousands upon thousands of hooves. The dragons cried again, still out of sight, much farther off than before.

A Dothraki man, mounted atop an enormous red stallion, rode forward. Others near him parted to let him through. The commander of the overwhelming force pursed his lips as he took in the weapons lying on the ground. Finally, he shrugged.

"You lose," the Dothraki stated simply through his thick accent. 


	6. The Kingsroad (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jon and Tyrion discuss plans for the Great War. Sam learns more about Daenerys from Jorah, Missandei, and Grey Worm. Daenerys makes an important decision._

**Chapter 4: The Kingsroad (II)**

The Kingsroad laying North of Castle Cerwyn was even less hospitable than the Castle itself had been, but this time Jon was not surprised. The road through the Wolfswood was seldom traveled in winter, and the stretches that were not covered in a thick sheet of ice were covered in several feet of fresh snow, with ice underneath.

From the South came the dragons' cries again. They sounded only the slightest bit farther off, but that was only because the train had moved farther away from Castle Cerwyn. The cries had come often, since the Castle had been lost to sight behind trees and falling snow. It was a sound Jon could not get used to. Beautiful, but terrifying.

"What are they doing?" Jon asked, casting nervous looks over his shoulder to the South. Despite the recent elevation, he saw only wagons, trees and snow, as far back as his eye would go. The cries came again, louder, as a pair this time.

"Not melting castles or burning cities, if that's what you mean," Tyrion replied before taking a quick swig from his skin. "They are terrifying, and capable of great destruction, yes... but they listen to her. Dragons are intelligent," he said, emphasizing each word separately. "They seem to know what our Queen wants of them, without being told. Daenerys is wise to intimidate Lord Cerwyn, to make him think hard on his decision to deny her... and the decision yet to come, when we march South again after the Long Night. The dragons will not harm anyone at Castle Cerwyn." Tyrion assured. "Well... not yet, at least."

Jon was still apprehensive at best about the notion of dragons in The North, but he was relieved to hear they would not return to find a pile of charred rubble, where the trade capitol of the North had once stood. Often, he avoided thinking about where the dragons were. Nobody in the train had seen them in the flesh since Dragonstone, much to Sam's frustration. Now and then, the great beasts would fly side-by-side above the clouds, and frequently their shrill roars stated their presence nearby, but both had remained well out of sight.

Jon decided to change the subject. "Why are you riding back here? You're the Hand of the Queen. Shouldn't you be riding with the Queen?" Jon asked.

"You're curious today, aren't you?" Tyrion replied bitterly. He went to take another swig of wine, but put the skin away on second thought.

"Daenerys has been... unsure of her decision to name me her Hand. I believe she is considering _unnaming_ me and naming Ser Jorah instead... A man well-worthy of the title, to be sure," Tyrion explained in a carefully neutral tone. It fell to melancholy as he went on. "She is afraid I will fail her, and so she has put a distance between us. I've never met a woman who didn't need her space, from time to time."

"So that's why you weren't in the address at White Harbor," Jon reasoned out. "And why she's commanded you to... lead the wagon train."

"Maybe you're not a Northern fool after all," Tyrion replied. "Yes, she is disappointed with my failure to predict my sister's actions..." Tyrion paused a long time. When Jon looked down, it was impossible not to notice the haunted look in Tyrion's eyes. Jon pitied the man for the weight he bore.

Tyrion's would have been the _only_ word to trust on whether or not Cersei would help in the fight against the dead. Tyrion had said that she would, so long as they showed her proof that the threat was real. Viserion had died to obtain that proof, along with several good men, but Cersei had betrayed them anyways.

Eventually, Tyrion noticed Jon's look. "Tell me Jon Snow, why are _you_ back here at the head of the wagon train? Our Queen certainly didn't send you to keep me company."

"Daenerys said you had something to show me."

"I do, yes." Tyrion slipped a hand into his breast pocket and pulled out his notebook. He opened it to a marked page, then passed it up to Jon. "I'll need to get these finished as quickly as possible when we reach Winterfell. Thankfully, the designs are fairly simple. Mostly it's the metalwork that needs doing. Hard to take a forge on the road, so unless the dragons are feeling generous, I'll need your signature to show the smiths at Winterfell that completing my designs are top priority."

The page the notebook was opened to had an intricate sketch of a harness. It was made of many straps of hardened leather ending in steel rings, connected together with short, thick lengths of chain. At the top, the straps were all connected to a narrow leather seat with clips coming off of it. The design was fairly simple, but from the measurements written on the page, it was big enough to fit...

"Is that... a _saddle,_ for a _dragon_?" Jon asked incredulously, turning his wide eyes to Tyrion, who smiled proudly.

"It is, yes. The first one in history, I believe. I only hope the dragons will allow us to fasten them. Daenerys tells me it could be possible, with some help. The harnesses will allow you to fly faster, and maneuver more quickly during the Long Night. You'll be fastened to them, so you can't fall, and you'll be able to climb on and off more quickly," Tyrion explained. 

Shaking his head, Jon only flipped a few more pages to the next design labeled " _FINAL_ " at the top.

"And these are... _what_ are these?" Jon asked of a strange device, looking something like a mask. The front part was made of finely polished glass, trimmed at the edges with soft leather, and perforated at the top with several holes. A leather strap was attached off the back, fixed to the sides at both ends.

"I call them ' _goggles_ ,'" Tyrion replied, smirking.

" _Goggles_?" Jon replied with an arched eyebrow.

"Well... eye-shields didn't exactly have a ring to it," Tyrion admitted begrudgingly before perking up again, pointing at the notebook. "You'll wear them to shield your eyes from the wind and ice of the storm." Jon pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows approvingly at the sketches－ he himself had wondered how Daenerys, or even the _dragons_ , could see well enough to fly in the unnatural storm－ then he looked quickly at Tyrion.

"Hold on. Now, when you say _you_..."

"There's no one else our Queen would ask this of, Jon Snow," Tyrion explained dismissively. "And if Drogon allowed you to touch him at Dragonstone, when they returned from the Reach, _you_ are the only person that _can_ do it."

Jon realized that Tyrion actually sounded jealous. Furrowing his brow, Jon figured _most_ people had probably dreamed of riding a dragon. Jon himself had dreamed of flying, often as a child and again, more recently, at Dragonstone. But in those dreams, he had not been riding a dragon, he _was_ the dragon... 

"What, you've never touched the dragons?" Jon asked after a pause, not much wanting to continue the conversation about his riding one.

"Once," Tyrion replied dreamily. "Underneath the Great Pyramid of Meereen... but that was only because I was there to release them."

"What do you mean, release them?"

Tyrion explained Daenerys' decision to chain the dragons up, after Drogon had killed the child. "Since then, as far as we know, the dragons have not killed anyone without her command. They learn, and our Queen has taught them good manners... As good as one can expect of dragons anyways."

They rode in silence for a while. "When does she stop being so..." Jon failed to find the right word.

"Never." Tyrion replied immediately. "Every time you think you know her Jon Snow, she will do something that you never expected, something to leave you breathless and awestruck for years to come."

Jon heard the adoration, the love plain and undisguised in Tyrion's voice and tried not to pity the man. He turned his attention back to the notebook, starting to flip the page, but Tyrion quickly shot his hand up for Jon to return it.

"There's more in there than sketches," Tyrion explained with a hint of embarrassment.

"Never took you for a poet," Jon jested as he handed the notebook down, having glimpsed the structure of the words on the next page, if not their content. 

Tyrion flushed, but sounded less embarrassed when he spoke. The awe was back in his voice. "I wasn't really... Not until I met her."

Jon sniffed and put a hand on Tyrion's shoulder. "Yours will be the song they sing when this is all over," Jon told him, and he urged his horse forward, making for the front of the train.

Adjusting in his saddle, again, Sam did not find himself any more comfortable than before. Years had passed since he had last ridden a horse for more than a few hours. Usually he traveled long distances by boat or carriage, never realizing how spoiled he had been until spending the last four days atop the largest palfrey that White Harbor had to offer.

The lumbering bay animal was so large that Sam rode a head above Ser Jorah, who rode a large, dark destrier to his right. Grey Worm rode to Sam's left, on a slim gray palfrey built for speed. The Unsullied Captain looked straight ahead at the Queen several paces ahead, riding at the very front. His eyes never moved, even when he spoke, which was seldom enough. 

Beside Grey Worm, Missandei rode a trim, dark chestnut with a spring in its step that had not diminished since they set out on the long, arduous journey from White Harbor.

"Haven't spent much time in a saddle, I take it?" Ser Jorah asked as Sam adjusted his seat yet again. The insides of his thighs burned, ached and itched at the same time, and there was a stabbing pain in his lower back that would not be eased, no matter how often Sam knuckled it.

"Not really," Sam admitted, trying to sit still. "I take it you have?"

"I rode with Khal Drogo's horde for years," Ser Jorah replied. "The Dothraki were not always so restrained as they were today... before the _Khaleesi_ took command, they were the sort of company you could expect a disgraced Knight to keep." Jorah sounded almost regretful, and Sam could not blame him; he had seen something of Dothraki culture in the camps they made at night, and they were certainly a rough, wild people. They reminded Sam well of the Wildlings.

"It's how I met her," Jorah finished with not a hint of regret left in his voice, nodding towards the Queen.

Sam had been asked to stay with Ser Jorah all the way to Winterfell, to learn more about Daenerys. The Knight often rode right next to his Queen. Sam had figured it a bit rude to ask the Knight questions about the Queen where she could hear, so despite this being their sixth day on the Kingsroad, Sam still had not learned much about her, outside of what he had seen for himself. He had seen, already, how Dragon Queen addressed her subjects. 

Sam had been told to stay with Ser Jorah, and Jorah was never far from his Queen, not unless ordered elsewhere. To everyone, Queen Daenerys spoke with equal parts of respect and authority. Each night, while others made camp and ate supper, she would take an extra hour or two of riding to visit her troops. After conferring with her Dothraki and Unsullied soldiers, she would offer to her men anything they required, they need only ask. It was often well past dark that she made it back to her own tent for supper and meetings with her advisers.

"What was she like, back then?" Sam asked with great curiosity, this being the first time he could ask without the Queen within earshot. Sam only knew that at the start of Daenerys Stormborn's rise to power, she had been only a child bride, sold off to a barbarian warlord by her brother, in exchange for an army.

"When I first met the Queen she was little more than a child," Jorah began. "She was quiet, scared and lonely. She did everything Viserys told her to do, because she had no choice. But you could see, even then. She was strong, and _proud_. A daughter of kings... After she wed _Khal_ Drogo, the _Khaleesi_ began to realize she didn't belong to _Viserys_ anymore. Every day, I watched her grow fiercer. Her voice grew stronger, more commanding, and Viserys grew weaker, more violent, more unpredictable. When Drogo killed Viserys, she did not weep. Viserys was cruel and weak; he was everything the Mad King was and worse." Sam only listened, nodding at parts, and Jorah continued on without being urged.

As they marched North, Sam heard the story of Mirri Maz Duur, who had murdered Daenerys' husband and unborn child. Jorah told him how Daenerys had burned the witch alive on Drogo's funeral pyre and walked into the flames. How the stone eggs she had placed on the pyre had hatched into the first dragons the world had seen in centuries.

 _The Mother of Dragons... I wish I could have seen it,_ Sam thought as he gazed in wonder at the silver-haired heroine riding ahead of him.

"I'll never forget her face when she walked into that fire," Jorah recalled, his voice full. "She was _certain_. For the first time in her life, she belonged to herself. Now she belongs to her children."

"The dragons," Sam breathed, caught up in the story.

Jorah looked at him with a wizened smile on his face. " _No,"_ he replied. "She may be the Mother of Dragons, but they're not her only children. Not to her. All her subjects－ every man woman and child－ she sees as her own. She would never say it herself; she doesn't feel it's her place, but I know it's true. All she's ever done, she did to protect her people... with all the ferocity of any mother.

 _Quite a woman,_ Sam thought again, recalling the way she had dropped all airs of regality and power... to waggle playful fingers at Northern children.

" _Mhysa_ ," Grey Worm declared, eyes still fixed on his Queen.

" _Mhysa_?" Sam repeated, eager to hear more from the seldom-spoken Grey Worm, even though he knew what the word meant.

"It is Old Ghiscari," Grey Worm said, "meaning Mother. Our Queen had eight-thousand Unsullied army when she killed Masters of Astapor. On Daenerys Stormborn's command, Unsullied kill no innocents, only Masters and soldiers. _Any_ soldier who fight for Masters are not _innocent_. Free men make their own choices," Sam found himself nodding, though he had never given it much thought before.

Grey Worm went on, without glancing his way. "After she take Astapor, our Queen set us free. Told us we could go, give us her word we not be harmed. Unsullied chose to fight for Daenerys Stormborn. It was the first choice any of us ever make. Later, when our Queen take Yunkai, she has nothing to gain. Takes city only for them in Yunkai, still in chains. When Freedmen come out, they name her _Mhysa_. Mother protect her children _always."_

Grey Worm's low, almost monotone voice had pulled Sam halfway off his horse to lean over and listen. The enormous bay nickered, head yanked to one side as Sam righted himself with the reigns, cursing softly. Sam had a great liking for horses, and all animals really, but he had always been a terrible rider.

Jorah started up again after Grey Worm finished. The old knight talked long of her great deeds across Essos. As Sam listened, he found himself hating the Sons of the Harpy: slavers, and murderers of innocent children. Sam hated the _Khals,_ men who would brag of rape and slaughter, and called it strength. The _Khals_ would have called Daenerys Stormborn lucky to spend the rest of her days as _Dosh Khaleen_. When Missandei told Sam what the Unburnt had done to them, he found himself without a drop of pity, and glad for the fiery end to the Temple of the _Dosh Khaleen_. 

" I wonder how many of the _Dosh Khaleen_ could have been great," Sam said thoughtfully. "Not like the Queen maybe, but great in their own way, if the _Khals_ hadn't taken them captive." Looking about for a response, Sam saw Missandei regarding him. An entire world, one that Sam could never understand, shone from the depths of her dark eyes.

"Very many, I imagine," the Eastern Lady said softly.

For hours they talked, each of the Queen's most trusted advisers contributing a few sentences here and there about parts of her journey they had been there for. Above, the sun began to sink low. Sam listened, enraptured. When Jon trotted by him, he was startled at how much time had passed. 

Jon nodded at him as he passed, but he did not stop until he reached the Queen. Sam could not hear what he said to her, but Jon was gesturing to the sky.

" _Another_ storm?" Daenerys asked. The snow fell almost constantly; the North wind would not stop trying to push them back South, and there had been a blizzard every night. This was still not quite her _least_ comfortable journey, but the hilly, forested terrain, the constant snow and the cold were all foreign to her, and she longed for reprieve.

"We've been lucky," Jon replied sympathetically. "The storms have only come at night, when we'd have to make camp anyway. The Kingsroad can't be traveled at night, not after the winter storms start. We've only lost a few hours... It could have been weeks."

The Queen nodded sharply. "Good, then. The faster we are to Winterfell the better."

Daenerys looked around at the countryside. She had found, in the first few nights on the Kingsroad, that she knew little of what made a _good_ camp in the North. In Essos it had been simpler: they camped before dark, where there was water to be found, if any. Water was more plentiful here than she had ever known, and the makings of a good campsite were far more complicated. The past four nights Jon had been the one to tell her where they should make camp, but each night she had bid him to explain what it was that he looked for.

All around them tall pines soared up high, their branches heavy laden with snow. The trees had thinned some, but not so much that the snow had piled evenly; at the base of larger trees, the drifts lay heavier on the North sides. The slight, perpetual incline of the Wolfswood was steeper here than other spots, and the younger trees, to either side of the path were bent down with ice. Their branches pointed South. 

Turning to Jon with a question in her eyes, he nodded. "We'll camp here then," the Queen resolved, not looking at him again. They had both been careful to keep their communications minimal in front of others. It still felt strange to her... keeping secrets, especially from Jorah and Missandei, but the more people knew, the more likely it was that their secret got out.

" _Kel_ _ī_ _t_ _ī_ _s_ ," Daenerys commanded, raising her right hand up in a fist. The Unsullied at the front of the train set their spears down in with a short, deep _boom_ , carrying her command farther back where she could not be heard. The train halted. Riding a few extra steps forward, she turned her white mare around to address the train.

" _Kesi keligon kes_ _ī_ _r._ " The Queen watched proudly as the train broke formation and began preparations for setting up camp. Jon had shown her commanders on the first night: the trick of hacking off the lower boughs of pine trees, and lashing them together to move snowdrifts out of the way.

With over a hundred thousand pairs of hands, the snow was brushed away quickly and tents began to rise over elkskin carpets, meant to keep heat from leechign into the frozen ground. Watching the camp spring quickly to life from atop her splendid white palfrey, it was easy to feel satisfied. Daenerys recalled again the swift, nearly bloodless victory at Castle Cerwyn. The Dothraki had kept to her order. Not a single innocent harmed, and two thousand fresh horses had joined the train North.

Both of the dragons had stayed behind, to circle Castle Cerwyn in plain view after the soldiers' surrender. As much as she missed them, it was _her_ will, not theirs, which kept them above the clouds and out of sight. The Mother of Dragons had wanted to stay and watch them, if only to see them for a moment, but Jon had insisted, gently, that there was no time. As soon as Qhono had received his orders, the train had resumed its march North. By the time the dragons descended on Castle Cerwyn, the sky behind them had been obscured by the high-reaching branches of the unfamiliar forest.

Just ahead, Ser Jorah was riding towards her, along with Grey Worm, Missandei and Sam Tarly, who had become Jorah's shadow on the road to Winterfell. Jon had asked him, but it had been Tyrion's idea for Sam to stay with Ser Jorah. Daenerys had been watching Sam in the same gauging way that he watched her; she received updates from the others about him, and learned a good deal more from Jon. Even _Varys_ had only good things to say about Sam Tarly.

" _Khaleesi_ ," Jorah greeted her fondly, nodding respect, as he had for years now. Besides the Dothraki, Jorah was the only one left who still called her that. It always hit a soft spot in her heart, and reminded her of how far she had come. Daenerys nodded at him with a slight smile.

Ser Jorah took his usual place on her right, while Grey Worm and Missandei fell in next to Jon. Sam remained near Jorah, more in front of Daenerys than beside.

"An excellent choice of camp," Jorah remarked. "High ground, South-facing, good tree cover," he stated in a knowing way. Sometimes Daenerys forgot that Ser Jorah had been a Northman most of his life, before she had met him in Pentos, across the Narrow Sea. 

Daenerys gave a sidelong glance at Jorah, a satisfied grin on her face, before turning her attention to Sam.

"Lord Tarly," she intoned importantly. Sam stopped fidgeting in his saddle and looked at her with wide eyes. 

"Oh I- I'm no Lord, Your Grace. I've taken the Black. I gave up my lands and titles when I joined the Night's Watch, and I'm training to be a Maester as well."

"Sam, then," she allowed. "I hoped you would attend supper tonight, in my tent?"

As his eyes popped wider, Daenerys swallowed a laugh and constrained herself to a smile. Besides Jon, there was no Westerosi she had met yet that she enjoyed so much. Sam Tarly was kind, intelligent, humble, and amusing without trying. It was no wonder that he was Jon's closest friend.

"I- I would, Your Grace," Sam replied, half-bowing awkwardly in his saddle.

"Good," she replied, smiling still. "Excuse me, I must see to my troops before then. I'll send Jorah to escort you when it is time." Daenerys looked at Jorah and spoke in a lower voice, but kept her smile. " _Yer ishish astat mae_." _You may tell him._ Jorah nodded back, a twinkle in his eye.

Without looking back, she urged her horse to a slow gallop South, with Grey Worm following just behind. Ahead, her commanders had already gathered, expecting them. 


	7. The Kingsroad (III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sam and Jon speak privately. Missandei comforts her Queen. Daenerys offers Sam a choice. Jon and Daenerys find a moment alone._

**Chapter 6: The Kingsroad (III)**

Not having expected to be invited to _supper with the Dragon Queen_ , Sam had not exactly packed his finest clothes for the journey. The only cloak he had brought－ his thick black Night's Watch cloak, which had seen more than a few years of hardship－ hung behind him on a peg, while he changed. Thankfully he had packed two pairs of travel pants, one of which was slightly less worn than the other. Everyone traveled light, at Jon's urging.

Sam's tent was more extravagantly decorated than most, and he had only one chair, a small table and a few candles he would use to read by, besides his cot and the small bed of coals that had been dug into the center.

As Sam stepped into his pants, he wondered again why the Dragon Queen would ever want to have _supper_ with him－ Sam Tarly, a would-be Maester of the Night's Watch with only one healing link to his name－ unless it was simply because of his close friendship Jon? Mid-thought, Sam jumped and nearly toppled over when the man himself pushed through the flap door of the tent. Jon leaned on the table by the door, with his arms crossed and an amused grin on his face, watching Sam recover his balance.

"Nervous?" Jon asked him with a laugh in his voice.

"Not at all, just a dinner with the Dragon Queen, why would I be nervous? Tomorrow I'm heading to _brunch_ with Cersei Lannister." Sam hiked his pants the last of the way on and began fastening the buttons to the wool jacket over his smallshirt, then cursed when he realized he had buttoned them wrong, and tried again. When he looked back up, Jon was scowling in that way he had when he was thinking too seriously on something.

In that moment, Sam realized this was the first time he had seen Jon alone, since they had left White Harbor. The secret itched on his tongue, while _Aegon Targaryen_ glowered grimly, thinking too hard on Sam's jest. Biting back the truth back, Sam swallowed it again.

Sam had decided not to tell Jon about his true heritage... not until after the Long Night.

 _If everyone in the realm ends up a walking corpse, it hardly matters that Jon is a Targaryen_... and technically, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne. Sam fumbled with his buttons. 

A fool could see that Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen were life's greatest, and only hope in surviving the Long Night; knowing that... the messy politics of the truth paled the longer Sam had ridden with them. Besides that, Jon seemed happier than Sam had ever seen him, serving his new Queen; Jon smiled more in an hour nowadays than he had in the rest of the years Sam had known him... 

Sam had his suspicions about that, especially considering the way Jon occasionally stared at her. And because, despite riding together constantly, the two said almost _conspicuously_ little to each other. Sam had not asked though, and Jon had not told.

 _His Aunt, technically,_ Sam thought with a slight twist of his mouth. _But can she really be considered his family when they grew up thousand of miles apart? They hardly_ look _like family..._

"What do you think of her?" Jon asked seriously, and Sam jumped a bit before he realized what exactly Jon was asking.

"She is... _quite_ a woman... I can see why her followers are so devoted to her, I mean... They talk about her as if she's a hero from a story, and..." Sam paused, considering all his thoughts on the matter at once. "Well, I think... she might be a Queen worthy of the title. Certainly better than the alternative."

The smile Jon gave him warmed the room far more than the small bed of embers.

"I think so too. Daenerys saved me, beyond the Wall... She didn't have to, but she came herself. She's not like Cersei. She's not like anyone I've ever met..." Jon trailed off suddenly, all but confirming Sam's suspicions about Jon and Daenerys. Sam watch Jon's eyes widen, and cast off to the side. 

_Gods_ _the man is just not built for a lie_... Guilt twisted in his belly. Keeping Jon's secret hurt, but then, so would telling it.

Recovering, Jon crossed the tent quickly, putting himself right in front of him. "Daenerys is going to offer you Horn Hill, Sam."

Sam balked, for a moment he thought Jon was joking, but then he remembered who he was talking to. _If this is his first attempt at a joke..._ his mouth fell open slowly as he decided Jon must be telling the truth.

" _Me_? Lord of Horn Hill?" Sam scoffed. It sounded no more possible than it did the day Sam had left his home for the Wall. "But I've taken the Black, I've sworn the oaths... I'm to be the Maester at the Wall. I can't be Lord of Horn Hill, _and_ the Maester of the Wall, at the same time!"

"Daenerys is the Queen," Jon affirmed. "She will allow you to forsake your oaths as a reward, for the services you've done for the realm."

Sam scoffed again. "What have _I_ ever done for the realm?"

Jon put a hand on his shoulder and shook his head, smiling. "You've never given yourself enough credit... _Sam_ , you rescued Gilly and Little Sam from Craester, against orders. You're the first man to kill a Whitewalker in _thousands_ of years. You survived the Fist of the First Men, and walked all the way back to the Wall..." Jon paused and Sam pulled his eyes up from the bed of embers.

Jon smiled at him and shook his shoulder a bit. "You're a man who never gives up, no matter how fucked he is," Jon said. Sam couldn't help but grin, and Jon laughed in that quiet, breathy way he had while pulling his hand off Sam's shoulder. 

Jon went on. "You risked banishment from the Citadel to cure Ser Jorah. You uncovered the secret of dragonglass, _and_ where to mine it... You're a _hero_ , Sam. If it weren't for you... we wouldn't stand a chance."

"Well... the Whitewalker was a bit of an accident," Sam began, but stopped when Jon gave him an exasperated look. "Why are you telling me this? I mean... why not just let her tell me?" Sam wondered aloud. If the Queen was to offer him a lordship, he figured she would not balk at doing it herself. 

"Jorah asked me to tell you, on Daenerys' command. She didn't want you to be caught off guard. Daenerys knows you're a man of honor, Sam. I told her so myself; she knows you'd take the oaths you swore seriously," Jon said as he moved for the door. He paused in front of it. "Daenerys wanted you to have time to think," Jon said, unclipping the fastenings from the tent poles and sending the snowy winds whipping in. The embers in the pit hissed a bit, and glowed brighter as the fresh air stirred against them.

Jon turned just inside of the door. "I promise she's not like Cersei, Sam. You can say no, if that's what you want."

"I... I don't know what I want." Sam replied nervously.

Jon smiled sadly at him. "I know... If I were you, I'd think of Gilly and Little Sam before anything else." With that Jon turned and left, refastening the clips that held the flap door shut.

Sam sat himself down on the cot to think, but he only stared at the embers in the pit, missing Little Sam and Gilly, and wishing she were here to tell him what the right choice was.

The coals glowed with a soft, warm light, offering a welcome warmth from the chill that had come in with the wind.   
  


By the time Daenerys finished seeing to her troops, her tent was warm as a sunny day in Meereen. The Dothraki handmaidens who shared her tent－ no more fond of the cold than she was－ had been happy to haul in several stone braziers, piled high with embers from the camp pyre outside. 

In the heat of her tent, the thick, white fur and red wool gown she wore quickly became too warm. After all the freezing cold of the North, _too warm_ was a welcome feeling.

The Queen's tent was of course bigger than others, perhaps six paces long and five wide, with dark stone stone braziers lined directly down the middle. Empty cots lined the walls, each cot with a candle fixed upon it, where her handmaidens would sleep when the time came.

Some space had been left at one end of the tent to accommodate a long, rectangular table of polished black wood, decorated with red-lacquered dragons. At the head was a tall-backed, gleaming black chair with two dragons heads carved into the armrests. Arranged around the rest of the table were five black, more simply-made chairs.

"Your Grace," Missandei greeted her fondly, bustling about the seating area with two of the handmaidens, preparing it for supper. A divider hung just behind the seating area, sectioning off her and Missandei's sleeping quarters. The Queen smiled warmly and nodded at Missandei, but did not slow her pace towards her quarters.

Pushing her way through the divider, Daenerys closed her eyes and took a breath, letting her shoulders come forward for the first time since she had dressed this morning. The ache along her spine eased, if only a bit. 

With another breath, she shed the thick, white fur overcoat. The charcoal traveling gown underneath, bare of shoulder, was scaled and snug on the breast. A thick band of darkest red silk wrapped about the waistline. The divided skirts were of the same color and make as the top part of the gown, charcoal colored wool, but thinner and looser. The black fleece leggings she wore provided some extra warmth, not that it was necessary in her tent.

With a sigh, Daenerys found she was sitting herself down on the bed before she realized it. Her bare shoulders slumped farther forward. _Does Drogon ever feel so tired, I wonder?_ Yet she knew that he did. For the weeks they had sailed the Narrow Sea, the dragons had flown and hunted without rest; when they finally made port, her children had slept for nearly a week without waking. _If only I could sleep so well,_ she thought wearily.

Of late, she seldom slept well enough to dream. When she did, she was flying, with a great ache in her chest. A bitter cold all around her, leeching its way into her skin, through her muscle and bone, surrounding her heart with ice... A needle of cold would pierce her heart, and she would wake, gasping.

Shaking her head to displace the thoughts, she felt the weight of the dragon comb in her braids. Reaching her hand back, she pulled it free; a splendid thing the comb was, but heavy and uncomfortable to wear. Lowering the comb to her lap, the Mother of Dragons traced the silver wings softly with her thumbs.

Remembering Viserion was an ache that would not ease, and yet she often found herself too busy even to think of him. When she did, the first thing she recalled was that he was still dead. _Forever_. All her power, and yet nothing she could do would bring him back. Staring at the silver dragon, Daenerys was surprised to see a spot of wet appear on its chest. With a sharp, shaky breath, she dabbed at her eye; the tears welling up had gone unnoticed until one had fallen.

"Your Grace," came Missandei's voice. Quickly Daenerys straightened and swallowed the lump in her throat as best as she could. The curtain pushed back, and Missandei ducked through. "Supper is nearly ready, I've sent for..." Missandei trailed off, paused, and continued in a much softer tone. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes," Daenerys whispered, setting the dragon comb aside. The tightness in her throat, seemingly offended by the lie, began to throb. Missandei sat quietly next to her on the bed, and reached and hand out. 

Daenerys took the hand squeezed, treasuring its warmth. The rock in her throat softened a bit, enough for her to speak, though not of the child she had lost. To even think of Viserion was overwhelming... to speak of him would be unbearable.

"May I ask you something?" Daenerys asked.  
  


"Of course," Missandei replied. "Anything." She had not missed the wetness of her Queen's eyes when she first entered.

The Queen hesitated a long time before looking up to meet Missandei's eyes. There was a deep and recondite sadness emanating from them when she finally asked, "Have you ever loved someone, and yet known they were not meant for you?"

Missandei felt a wave of sympathy wash over her. The Queen had not confided in her about the ongoing love affair with Jon Snow, and knowing there must be a good reason, Missandei had not asked. She would not put her Queen in the position of asking now, either. 

Looking up in thought, a reminiscent smile bloomed on Missandei's face.

"Once," she remembered distantly. "When I was a girl. My first Master was an older man, who had three sons. The youngest son was my age. Kezzōn was... different. He was always kind to me. He would sneak me sweets, and ointment for the blisters I'd get pulling the hoe. I spent two years there. Kezzōn would come to the slave quarters after dark, to teach me languages and history he studied, and he watched the stars with me," Missandei's voice was full of warmth and nostalgia until she went on. Her gaze dropped back down from its reverie. "Master Dravniz found out... After he was done with me, he sent me to the slave market."

"I'm sorry," Daenerys whispered, casting her eyes down. Missandei, still holding the Queen's hand, squeezed it gently.

"Your Grace, if I may," Missandei hedged. Daenerys met her eyes and nodded weakly. "Just because something may not be meant to last forever... it can still be a good thing to _remember_ forever."  
  


The gentle strength, and unwavering loyalty of Missandei of Naath were nothing short of a sanctuary to her. " _Thank you_ ," Daenerys murmured, putting her other hand atop Missandei's. They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, hand-in-hand, until the older of the two Dothraki handmaidens poked her head into their quarters.

"They here soon, _Khaleesi_ ," Idri announced politely, and ducked back through the curtain divider.

Taking a deep breath, Daenerys released Missandei's hand and stood. As she rose, Daenerys smoothed her hands down the red silk band about her waist, taking comfort in the softness. Pushing her chin up and her shoulders back, Daenerys slipped through the curtain divider with Missandei just behind. The Dragon Queen took her seat at the table.

Ser Jorah, Sam, Jon, and Grey Worm entered together soon after, each covered in a thick dusting of sleet that melted moments after entering the tent.

"Welcome," Daenerys said warmly, standing to greet them. Daenerys enjoyed watching Jon's expression as he noticed her new gown: cut high, but snug at the breast and waist, and bare of shoulder. Jon looked away quickly, but his ardent smile lingered a moment longer. Missandei cast her eyes aside, and Daenerys did not miss the knowing smirk she gave, quick as it was. Quickly, Missandei turned and gestured to the two Dothraki handmaidens that stood off to the side.

One, Idri, was once the High Priestess of the _Dosh Khaleen_. The other was Ornela, a former _Khaleesi_ whom Daenerys had befriended during her brief imprisonment in the Temple of the _Dosh Khaleen_.

Idri uncovered the silver trays upon the table, revealing a steaming pile of smoked rabbit, already boned and cut to serving sizes. There was also a large bowl of hot broth, and a tray piled high with roasted potatoes, onions, and carrots. When the trays were uncovered, Idri began loading the empty plates and pouring wine. Ornela moved over to help the men with their cloaks.

"My apologies for the late hour," Daenerys said as cloaks were shed, "please sit and eat. I assure you, there is no need to wait any longer on my behalf," Daenerys insisted, still standing despite the ache in her feet, legs, and back.

Missandei sat first, in the first chair just to her left, and Grey Worm seated himself next to Missandei. Ser Jorah sat at the far end of the table while Jon took the chair to Jorah's left. 

The first chair to her right was left for Sam; his eyes widened when he saw which seat had been left for him, but he took his place without hesitating.

When all had been seated, Daenerys sat gratefully, and took up her silverware straight away, both to put the others at ease, and because she herself was too hungry to wait through the inevitable toast Ser Jorah would offer if she did not. 

The drums and chanting of the Dothraki outside drifted through the walls of the tent, offering a pleasant ambiance as everyone gulped the hot food down. None of them had had a real meal since they had broken camp at first light.

When bellies began to fill and the pace slowed, Daenerys broke the silence. "Sam. Did Ser Jorah inform you as to why I've invited you here?" Sam swallowed his food a bit too quickly and had to clear his throat as he responded.

"Jon did, Your Grace," Sam replied.

"Oh?" Daenerys looked at Jorah curiously.

"I figured it would be better coming from him," her Knight explained, gesturing to Jon with a slight tilt of his head before popping another piece of rabbit into his mouth.

"Yes. I suppose it would," she replied, turning a warm gaze on Sam. "Do you have any thoughts? You may refuse," she added, leaving out that Sam would have to refuse more than once, before she would accept no as his answer.

Sam set his silverware down and took a sip of wine, shying away from her gaze. "Your Grace... I thank you, truly, I do, but... I swore oaths to the Night's Watch. I gave my _word_. I took the vows before the Weirwood tree..."

"So did I, Sam," Jon interjected. "After we defeat the Night King, there'll be no need for a Night's Watch."

Sam paused with a thoughtful look on his face. "I suppose not," he said, and turned back to her. "But still, I'm training to be a Maester, I had planned to return to the Citadel after the Long Night."

Ser Jorah spoke up. "Have you ever met a Maester with a woman and child?"

"Well... no. When Maesters are sworn in they're expected to leave their former families and allegiances, and swear an oath of _celibacy."_ Sam's mouth twisted around the word before he looked abashedly at her. Sam asked her for her pardon, and she waved her hand dismissively before she replied.

"Those are good oaths for Maesters," Daenerys commended, "and not among the changes I plan to make to the Citadel, when the war is won. A sworn servant of the people－ male _or_ female－ ought not have any higher duties than the one they've chosen." Daenerys paused a moment, bracing herself. "Jon tells me you have a mother and sister at Horn Hill?"

Sam smiled fondly. "Yes, Your Grace. My mother Melessa, and my sister Talla. They're good women, you'd like them very much."

Daenerys set her silverware down and folded her hands in her lap.

"There is something you should know. Varys informed me this evening that your mother and sister have had some trouble, ever since your father and brother died," she said neutrally, moving on quickly to a more sympathetic tone as Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Many suitors have offered their hand to your mother, but she has refused them all. Varys says that already there are whispers of treachery. Some plot to force her into a marriage... others, to... murder them both." 

Truly, it was not news she had enjoyed hearing, or sharing, but she could not deny that it was convenient evidence to the point she was yet to make.

Sam leaned back from the table a bit, eyes wide. He looked at Jon, who nodded grimly. "I was there, Sam. I heard it myself, just after I saw you last. Tyrion may trust Varys more than he should, but as far as we know, Varys has never lied to us."

Sam turned with wide eyes, looking South towards Horn Hill, over a thousand miles away, looking like he wanted to ride as soon as his horse could be saddled. When his gaze returned to her, there was fear and mistrust in it, undisguised beneath a faint glisten of tears.

"I don't mean to frighten you!" Daenerys reached a steady hand to Sam's trembling one. He flinched slightly, but allowed her to put her hand atop his, though he would not meet her eyes at first. "I swear, I'd have told you sooner if I had known. _Sam_..." His eyes came up, and she went on softly. " _Accept_ my offer, take your place as Lord of Horn Hill, and _protect_ your family." 

Daenerys paused, watching Sam's face begin to consider, but he said nothing in response, so she went on.

"I offer you Horn Hill not only because it was your birthright denied to you, not only to put the best friend of my most valuable Westerosi ally in a seat of power. I offer it to _you,_ because the _people_ of this world need good, honorable rulers. As many as can be found. The wars have left Westeros broken. Houses allied for centuries abandon oaths at their Lord's command. Lords who only seek to protect their own interests, to hide behind wealth and walls, and shut out the people of the world who would _rely on them_ for protection. Sam. You have _proven_ yourself a protector, a caretaker, and a true servant of the common people... Allow me to release you from your oaths and send you _home_." There it was, his last chance to accept. 

The mistrust in Sam's eyes had softened as she spoke, but the fear for his family remained, alongside something else that Daenerys could not place. Sam looked at Jon again, who returned his searching look with a smile. Jon put a hand on Sam's shoulder.

"You deserve this, Sam. You do," Jon said, beaming. "Just... hire a bodyguard," he added, and Sam choked on a tight laugh.

 _Doubt_ , she realized. That was what she could not place in Sam's eyes. Doubt was one of many things she had let die with Drogo; that starry night, all her doubt had drifted up to the Nightlands with the smoke, while she climbed into his blazing pyre. Wrapped in the embrace of the white-hot flames, the heat had poured into her heart, and had stayed ever since... After that night, the Unburnt cast whatever doubt she had felt into the fire that raged within her.

That very flame in her chest flickered nervously, while she waited for Sam to give his answer. The cup Sam held trembled as he took a long sip of wine. It clattered lightly against the table as he set it back down. While Sam took a deep breath, Daenerys held hers.

"I... accept Your Grace. I will do it. Not for myself, but for Gilly and Little Sam, mother and Talla. I accept," Sam's voice caught in a few places.

Daenerys smiled; she squeezed his hand, still resting under hers.

"The _only_ reason to rule is for the sake of others," she said gently before pulling her hand back. "I will send word to Horn Hill of your return before the night is through. That should help give your family some protection until you can arrive."

Sam nodded gratefully at her. "With your leave, Your Grace, I will go as soon as we reach Winterfell. I'd go now if I could, but Gilly and Little Sam shouldn't be traveling alone."

Jon answered before she could. "We'll arrive too late in the day for you to leave tomorrow. You'll leave the next morning with the others, I promise. Sansa will bring anyone who can't defend themselves South to Castle Cerwyn. Lord Cley may not want to receive us, but Varys says he remains loyal to Sansa. Cley may be a fool, but he's a Northern one. Sansa will be able to convince him to abandon his pride for reason."

Jon sounded sure, and grateful, and Daenerys had to look away. After Varys had told her about Sam's family, _after_ Jon had left the tent to speak with Sam, the Spider had gone on to say that Lady Sansa was being quietly heralded by Lord Cerwyn and a few other Northern lords as _Queen in the North_. 

"I'm sure she will," Sam replied. "Your sister could talk stone uphill, if she set her mind to it," Sam jested, earning a breathy laugh from Jon. Sam turned back to face her, and Daenerys composed her pained expression.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Sam said.

Daenerys nodded, smiling. "Do not forget, Lord Tarly... I am still in your debt," she said, casting a meaningful glance at Jorah.

In turn, Jorah raised his cup. "To the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and the Lord of Horn Hill. Long may they reign."

After each of her guests had finished as much food as they could hold, Daenerys dismissed them. There were still letters to write to the Wall and Horn Hill. Grey Worm left first, then Sam. Jon donned his cloak as if to leave, but she bid him to remain for a word with a curt neutrality that impressed even herself.

"Jon Snow, a word before you go. Ser Jorah, would you please summon Varys and Tyrion, I must speak with them. Then go and _get some_ _rest_ ," she added, more softly. Her Knight had hardly left her side since he had arrived in Westeros.

"With respect, Your Grace... I'll rest when _you_ do," Jorah replied with a firm smile. Daenerys nodded gratefully, and Ser Jorah left.

Missandei dismissed the Dothraki handmaidens, then excused herself, but instead of passing through the divider to the sleeping quarters just behind it, she went through the flap door, with a coy look at Jon.

By then, Jon was the only one who remained. Their eyes locked together.

In seconds, he closed the distance to her and pulled her into a long, passionate kiss, which she returned with as much fervor. When Jon pulled away, the love pouring from the dark depths of his eyes was pure, and remembering Missandei's words, it no longer made Daenerys sad to see it. 

_A good thing does not need to last forever to still be good,_ came the bittersweet thought. After the breathtaking kiss, Daenerys pressed her forehead to his, _inhaled_...

"I feel good about that," she said softly, meaning Sam. She pulled back to gaze into his eyes. "And about _you_."

Jon smiled, his dark eyes gleaming, and he brushed his hand softly over her hair and down her cheek. Pressing her face into his hand, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath in. His hand smelled of leather, horse and pine.

"You should feel good," Jon replied softly. "Sam always dreamt of returning to Horn Hill... but he always thought they were just dreams. Always thought it would be impossible." Jon placed his other hand delicately on the other side of her face. " _You_ made it possible..."

Daenerys kissed him again, her heart pounding. All her life, she had put all her faith into herself, feeding all her doubt and fear into the fire that lived within her. 

It was something else entirely, the faith that Jon put in her... his love was a cooling salve, a breath of cold air to one struck with fever, icy water to a desert thirst... One of his strong, calloused hands rested delicately on the back of her neck; the other pressed into the red silk covering the small of her back.

"You would be surprised what dreams can come true, Jon Snow," she said softly, pulling back to gaze into the beautiful darkness in his eyes.  
  


When Jon was lucky enough to steal any time alone with Daenerys, he always found himself wondering if she were a dream; if the blades that had pierced his heart had killed him after all. That betrayal he had earned for refusing to see the Wildlings as less than human, and less than worthy of life. Holding Daenerys now... Jon wondered if she was an afterlife that had been gifted to him by the Gods... Gods more benevolent than he ever assumed.

Love was a foreign thing to him, and the warmth of it even more so: a strange and blessed heat. 

The only other woman Jon had ever loved was Ygritte. With the wildling girl, the love had been cold. An unreliable, faltering love, first born of the wildling's attempts to manipulate her way to freedom, and perpetuated by... Jon could no longer remember what. Ygritte was fierce, and independent, but selfish, and a stranger to mercy. When he had chosen honor and duty over her... Ygritte had put three arrows in his back. Luck alone had borne him back to Castle Black alive.

That luck had remained with him, it seemed. The proof was in his arms, in the softness of Daenerys' skin beneath his hands, the moonglow of her hair, and the green of her eyes like the first tender shoots of spring, streaked with golden rays of sunlight. Her full lips curved into a delicate smile, and Daenerys placed her right hand delicately over his heart. Jon braced himself, but softened when, instead of pain, he felt only warmth.

That wound in his heart had never healed properly, nor would it. It was a living memory of the knife that had killed him. Jon never seemed to notice the pain of it in a fight, but when he was alone, it would smart and ache with each stolen heartbeat. It had done so ever since Jon had been ripped away from death by the Red Woman.

Something in him had been forever changed after that. Though Jon was still not sure exactly what it was, he knew it was true. The man who had sworn oaths to the Night's Watch had been murdered, despite his best efforts at serving it. 

With Daenerys' hand over his heart, it felt less a burden to him that it was still beating. Jon took his hand from her waist, and set it atop hers.

"It wasn't a figure of speech, was it?" Daenerys asked him softly. "When Davos said you took a knife in the heart for your people... You _died_ , didn't you?"

"I did," Jon said in a broken whisper. "The Red Woman, Melisandre... or the Fire God she serves, I don't know... but... I came back." The perverted grief Jon still felt for his own death overwhelmed him, and he lowered his eyes.

"I'm sorry..." Daenerys whispered, and tried to pull her hand from his heart. Jon tightened his grip on her hand. He raised his eyes and smiled, for all the sadness he still bore.

"I'm not," Jon resolved softly. "Not anymore."

The Red Woman had told him that the Lord of Light had brought Jon back for a reason. At first, he had assumed that purpose was to defeat the Night King, but that was wrong. _That had to be wrong..._ The man of the Night's Watch, who had been killed by his brothers... that Jon Snow had already failed to kill the Night King, and more than once. That man had never even _met_ the woman that he held now.

 _Daenerys Targaryen_ was the reason the Red God had breathed life back into the corpse of a dead man. _Hers_ was the cause that he had been brought back to serve. 

It was not a thing Jon had decided in any one moment, now or past, but he knew as he looked into her eyes; he knew there was nothing he would not do for her. The woman he loved－ who was small enough that she made even _him_ feel tall－ beamed up at him, until she sighed and cast her eyes to the door.

"What is it?" Jon asked.

"Varys," Daeneys replied, taking a step back from his embrace but keeping her hands in his. "The Spider ought be the last to find out about us, if we can avoid it."

The wound in his heart twinged a bit at the thought of leaving her, of going back to his tent and sleeping alone, again, knowing she was only a few dozen paces away, but he nodded.

With precious seconds left, Jon drank in the sight of her like a man about to die of thirst. The bare of her shoulders would keep him up half the night, and with the way her eyes were smoldering at him now... he would be lucky to get any sleep at all.

"Go," she whispered softly, but her hands tightened on his.

Jon turned slowly, letting his hand stay in hers, with their eyes locked until only their fingertips touched. Then he turned and left, out into the fierce snowy winds. 


	8. Queen of the Seven Kingdoms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Cersei meets with Qyburn, Euron Greyjoy, and the Captain of the Golden Company, then visits her favorite prisoner for a chat._

**Chapter 7: Queen of the Seven Kingdoms**

The throne room was empty, save The Queen and Ser Gregor. The man－ if he could still be called that after what Qyburn had done to him－ was so quiet that he may as well have not been there at all. That was one of the things Cersei liked about him most.

Ser Gregor's silence never broke to question her, to attempt to counsel her, or to ask her of anything. The only thing Cersei liked about the Mountain more than his unwavering reticence was his brutality. Ser Gregor would do whatever she told him to do, no matter how fiendish or perverse it was, he would do it. Without a word.

It made her feel less alone, to know a loyal monster stood just behind her, backing her, always waiting for her next order. Compared to the Mountain, Queen Cersei felt almost virtuous.

Early evening light filtered through the grand window behind the Iron Throne－ _her_ throne－ casting long shadows from seven-pointed star adorning the window. The throne room was empty, but Cersei could not help but scan her eyes about, as if a crowd of supplicants were standing at her feet.

The throne room, of late, had always been empty. The Queen had been refusing all callers except the most highborn of her allies, and none of them had called since the Tarlys' fiery end. The smallfolk, however, were showing up in droves at the gates to the Red Keep, shouting demands for food, or blankets, or shelter... _Locusts_ , Cersei thought with a twist of her mouth.

The throne room would not be empty for much longer. The Queen had spent the better part of the afternoon watching the Iron Fleet ferry her army into Blackwater Bay. The wind had been a bit chilly in the gown she wore: fine red silk cut across the chest with black, high of cut and collar, and embroidered at the seams with golden thread. Upon her shoulders were spaulders wrought of pure gold, each with a Lannister lion etched into it. A golden chain was fixed, front and back, to each of the spaulders, running beneath her arms to keep them in place. In the front, the chains touched each shoulder guard, then ran down to meet in the center. Where the golden chains met, her Lannister lion pendant hung. Atop her head, of course, was her crown.

The Queen of Westeros sat patiently upon the Iron Throne, still as stone. A slight smile played on her lips while she enjoyed the peace and quiet of the empty hall.

A door opened. Not the large, gilded front doors through which Euron Greyjoy would soon lead the Captain of the Golden Company, but a back door tucked behind the throne. Ser Gregor turned, then faced forward again. Not an enemy sneaking in from behind, then.

Qyburn shuffled along in his long dark robes, tracing the raised edge of the room, rounding the corner, and kneeling at the bottom of the stair platform that led up to her throne.

Her Hand bowed his head. "Your Grace."

"What news from the North?" Cersei asked him again, the same as every morning. Qyburn raised his head to speak, but remained kneeling. _Good_ , Cersei thought, _I will not be made to repeat myself on a matter so simple as etiquette._

"The Targaryen Usurper and the Northern traitor Jon Snow have nearly reached Winterfell, they will arrive before night falls today. They were denied guest right at Castle Cerwyn," Qyburn informed her with a slight smile on his face. Cersei did not smile in return, much as the slight to her enemies did please her... _The Usurper should be dead by now_.

"And what of our man?" Cersei asked, spiteful that Qyburn had made her ask.

"Your Grace, the blade you sent has reported back, from Whiteharbor. He _was_ able to infiltrate the Usurper's flagship, but upon reaching her quarters, they were empty."

Cersei stared at him. "Empty?"

"Yes, Your Grace. The Usurper was nowhere to be found her flagship. We had no reason to expect otherwise; apparently the guard posted on the _Balerion_ had been triple that of other ships. He begs your forgiveness, and has stated his intent is to continue his journey North in pursuit of the Usurper."

_Clever little man_ , Cersei thought bitterly, wishing for the hundredth time that she had killed him when she had the chance. _You will not hide her forever, you little monster._

The disgraced Maester went on.

"There is more news Your Grace, the dead have taken control of one of the Targaryen girl's dragons. They've... broken through the Wall."

The slight tremble of fear in her Hand's voice disgusted her, but she said nothing to admonish him for it. Qyburn was perhaps not a fool _to be_ afraid, but he was pathetic not to hide it in front of his Queen.

Cersei twisted the disgust on her face into a cold smile. "Good... What of the Golden Company?" Qyburn averted his eyes and continued on.

"Captain Strickland of the Golden Company will arrive to meet with Your Grace, as expected, within the hour. Euron Greyjoy is on his way here n-"

One of the large doors at the front of the Great Hall swung open. Euron Greyoy held the large handle on either side of the door in each hand; he had planted a foot on each side of the door's base, riding it as it opened... like a child. Euron wore a crazed, open-mouthed grin, the manic light of it pouring from his eyes.

"I'm baaack!" The Captain of the Iron Fleet crowed softly before dropping off the door. He crossed the room in swaying, arrogant strides to stand erect beside Qyburn, who still knelt before her. Euron gave her a sweeping bow, his back foot balanced up on its toes, and one arm he tucked below his waist. As he bowed, the petulant fool did not lower his gaze, did not break eye contact with her. Nor did he drop the grin.

"And I've brought an army... worthy of Your _Grace_."

Cersei kept her face from twisting as Euron pulled himself out of his bow. "You've done well, and proven yourself a true friend of the crown."

"Friend?" Euron smacked his lips with his tongue as if he were actually tasting the word. Turning slowly in a complete circle, he looked around at the otherwise empty hall. Confusion was a show on his grimy face when he turned to her again.

"I don't have any friends..." Euron said simply. "I had a dog, before I left. A bitch I kept in the belly of one of my fastest ships, tied up tight. Imagine my surprise when I came back, and found out she _broke free_ of her cage and _stole my ship_ ," as he spoke, the whimsy in his voice turned to a low snarl. "Now I've no dog... and I'm _lonely_." Euron smiled appreciatively as he looked her up and down.

The Queen held her face still despite frothing rage inside of her. All she wanted in that moment was to tell Ser Gregor to cut him in half, or perhaps into even smaller pieces. _Ser Gregor would do it for me..._ Yet, she needed Euron Greyjoy alive, for now. As excruciating as it was to admit, she needed his naval power. Euron controlled the Iron Fleet, not her, not yet anyways. Without the Iron Fleet, Blackwater Bay was defenseless.

"You will have your Queen," Cersei began in a honeyed tone that turned quickly to iron. " _After_ the war is won. That was our agreement."

The smile on Euron's face vanished. He straightened up from his half-bow. When Euron spoke, his voice was a low growl.

"This was your plan to win the war. Far as I'm concerned, the war is won. With the Iron Fleet and the Golden Company, you stand a chance. Without the Iron Fleet..." Euron smiled and spread his arms, letting the threat hang in silent hall.

Cersei gave him her coldest stare, but Euron held her gaze without flinching. It was that lack of fear, and the loyalty to himself, first and only, that she respected and hated most about the man. With a cruel smile, she raised her hand, and Ser Gregor took a step forward with a hand on his sword. A bluff, but Euron could not know that for certain. There was venom in her voice when she spoke.

" _Wretch_. Do you think yourself the first to threaten me? If you cannot honor an agreement with your Queen--"

"Then I'll find myself another Queen," Euron cut her off in that low, mirthless voice. His eyes were hard and fixed until they lit up with his smile. The whimsy crept back into his voice in his next words, along with his petulant smile. "I hear the Dragon Queen likes ships..."

A panicked rage threatened to break through her composure. The silence hung heavy, pressing in around her, as she racked her brain for the words to regain control. _What would father do?_ A voice in the back of her mind reminded her that her father was dead, and so were her children. Cersei held his gaze without flinching until Euron shrugged and began to turn.

"Please show my betrothed to my chambers." The Queen did not have to address Qyburn for him to know he spoke to her. "Tell the servants to draw a bath for him. I will meet him there after I have received Captain Strickland."

Euron turned back with the maddest open-mouthed grin she had seen on him yet. Qyburn rose stiffly from his place, kneeling on the stone floor.

" _Betrothed_ ," Euron exulted softly, bending his knees a bit. Euron threw his arm around Qyburn. "Betrothed! Did you hear that Qyburn, _she said yes_!" Euron shook the man with his arm. "We should celebrate! Have a cup with me, Lord Hand. I've always liked to share a cup of wine with my men." Qyburn led Euron away, as he babbled inanely about wedding plans. Together they went out the side door, that eventually led to her chambers.

A furious sigh rushed out of her when they had gone. The Queen forced herself to release her fists, clenched so tight her nails had bitten into her palms. Closing her eyes, Cersei took a deep breath. _Not an ideal solution, but a step in the right direction_ , she thought. With control resumed, she was safe. The Iron Fleet would stay in Blackwater Bay, loyal to her as long as she kept the Greyjoy man happy.

Euron Greyjoy was hardly the first man Cersei had bedded to serve a purpose, but The Queen had thought when she took her crown that there would be no further need to use the weapon between her legs. Except, perhaps, on Jaime. _Any weapon is better than none,_ Cersei thought, pursing her lips and shrugging the ordeal off. Doubtful that it would be any more nauseating than bedding her scrawny cousin _Lancel_ had been.

The doors opened again when Captain Strickland arrived. The two Goldcloaks posted there closed it behind him, staying outside the Great Hall, on her orders.

The Queen could not afford any spies whispering secrets to Varys' little birds, thousands of which certainly still roamed her city. If only she could slaughter all of the Spider's little birds at once, but killing thousands of children in the open was not a play she could afford to make. _Not again_ , she thought, fondly remembering how with one simple command, she had purged the city of dozens of Robert's bastards... _Not yet, at least._ Whenever one of the filthy creatures was found skulking about the Red Keep, Cersei simply asked Ser Gregor to make them disappear. One little bird at a time.

Captain Strickland was of the House Strickland, a formerly Westerosi house that had been exiled to Essos. As he approached, Cersei decided that she liked the look of him right away. A tall, lean man with a hard face and cold eyes. Strickland knelt before her at the bottom of the landing and did not rise until she said to, and she liked him more for it.

"Captain Strickland. Rise. The crown welcomes you," Cersei began with a smile painted on her face. "I trust you and your men fared well on the voyage across the Narrow Sea. Twenty-thousand men, was it?"

"Yes Your Grace," he replied neutrally. A man who spoke plainly, and only when spoken to. Her smile became more genuine.

"And the elephants?"

"They'll arrive within the week. Apologies for the delay, Your Grace. They are very large animals requiring special transport vessels, but they will come."

"Quite alright," Cersei breathed, her excitement pushing through her calm resolve. "Tell me more of them."

Strickland approached the throne with his head down, and offered her a sheet of parchment. On it was a detailed ink drawing of one of the beasts, with the shape of a man next to it to offer indication of their size. _Only one would fit in the Great Hall, and barely..._ Cersei fought off a shiver of excitement. Strickland stepped back down to the bottom of the landing.

"We've brought ten with us. They've been trained for war since birth, Your Grace. Males only. The females are less aggressive, and we use them only for breeding," Cersei nodded, her eyes on the ink drawing, and Strickland went on. "They are controlled from seats on their back, where their handlers sit. As you can see, their tusks will be wrapped with spiked chains strung between them. I must warn you, Your Grace, they are... quite indiscriminate in battle, but their handlers will do their best to limit collateral."

"Tell your handlers not to worry much over it." Cersei's eyes were still fixed on the drawing. With a finger, she traced the spiked chain, like a plow between their great tusks. Every one of her men could be run down by those chains for all she cared. As long as the battle was won in the end, it made little difference to her.

"I will tell them, Your Grace."

Forcing herself to look up from the drawing, she folded the paper carefully and slipped it into the folds of her red silk gown.

"You will be tired after your journey. Take the rest of today to rest. Tomorrow morning you will return here with seven of your best fighting men to receive further orders."

Strickland nodded and bowed deeply. "Your Grace," he said before turning and escorting himself out.

When he had gone, the Queen took the drawing out again, imagining the carnage the elephants would create among the Usurper's forces. That was assuming, of course, that her hired blade did not end the war before it could come to battle.

Folding the drawing back up, she slipped it back into the fold of her dress before rising and heading through the opposite door through which Euron and Qyburn had left. Ser Gregor followed, of course.

_Euron will wait_ , Cersei told herself bitterly as she made her way through the Red Keep to the dungeons. Initially, she had not intended to visit her favorite prisoner today, but the meeting with Strickland was too quick. _Let him wait..._

Cersei descended the winding staircase past the first door, past the second, past the third, which led to the Black Cells, where traitors and violent criminals were kept. Pulling a sconce on the wall, the false wall at the bottom of the spiraling steps swung open easily. Ten steps lower, and then, the fourth and final door, at the very bottom of the stairs. The door opened to a small, barely lit hallway, only twenty paces long. The hall reeked of stale air, filth and decay. Opening the second to last door in the hall, Cersei stifled a gag at the smell that greeted her.

The torches in the cell, as promised, burned bright. Ellaria Sand hung limply from the same chains that the Dornish woman had been put in after Euron had delivered her. _He does deliver results, I'll give him that..._

Across the cell, the rotting corpse of the Sand Snake's daughter hung with her arms still chained to the wall. The dead girl's shoulders were starting to pull free of the joints. The skin hanging loosely upon her flesh was gray, turning green. The eyes had mostly rotten from her skull. Long-since dried runs of dark fluid leaked from the eyes, nose, and mouth. The jaw sagged open grotesquely, as low as the gag still in it would allow.

Ellaria did not stir when the door opened. Cersei pulled her handkerchief out from her sleeve and pressed it over her nose and mouth, gratefully inhaling the strong rose-scented perfumed she had soaked it in.

"Not so beautiful anymore is she?" Cersei asked the chained woman softly. Ellaria did not give as much as a twitch in response.

"Last time I visited you, she was still beautiful, even in death. It took her quite some time to die... A strong constitution, just like her mother... Can you still see her face, I wonder, as it was?" Ellaria hung motionless, her eyes fixed on the floor.

"The Golden Company has just arrived. Twenty-thousand swords and ten elephants," Cersei crouched down as she opened the ink drawing, held it under Ellaria's face. "See?" Cersei asked softly, her eyes tracing the drawing lovingly.

It gave the Queen peace, to come here and talk to Ellaria. They were not so different: uncompromising, vicious, and obsessed with revenge. Cersei had simply been the stronger of the two. If not for the wars, they might have been friends. Allies, even. Their similarities were only part of the reason the Queen liked to talk to her. Ellaria never interrupted, never questioned, she _only_ listened. There was nothing Cersei could not say to the Dornish woman.

Ellaria was the only person Cersei could tell all her secrets to and know they would never leave. Cersei loved her for that, truly loved her.

For nearly an hour, Cersei ranted on her frustrations with Euron, her preparations for the battle, her fear of the dragons, and her hope that the hundred Scorpions she had ordered to be made and mounted all throughout the city would be enough to defeat them.

The Queen paused for a long time, after confessing how little she desired to bed Euron. Twice, she almost held her tongue, but the words needed to come out of her.

"Jamie has abandoned the capitol. He's gone North. To fight for the _living_ , as he puts it... I told him that I was carrying his child, and he left us both."

Cersei almost flinched when the chains rattled beside her. Ellaria raised her head slowly, weakly. The gag was still wrapped tight in her mouth, but the Sand Snake's eyes bent up at the edges in a cruel, unmistakable smile.

For a moment, Cersei glared, then she smiled back before stepping to the side, forcing Ellaria to catch a glimpse of her daughter's sagging corpse. Ellaria's eyes screamed for a moment before her head dropped again in defeat. Cersei left the cell.

Usually, she felt peace after talking to Ellaria, but Cersei felt nothing but empty rage now, leaning against the cell door with her one hand pressed on her waist.

There was nothing inside of her. No baby quickening in her womb. No prince or princess that she would love, and hold, and raise. But that did nothing to ease the betrayal she felt for it, when Jamie had left her. Left _them_. It had been Tyrion's incorrect assumption, after that pathetic gambit in the Dragonpit that had first given her the idea to tell Jamie... he thought she was with child, but Jaime had left anyways.

A baby needed a father, but Jamie had abandoned them both. Weeks later, and it was getting more difficult to pretend, without Jaime there to listen to her lies... But pretending was all the family that Cersei had left to her.

By now she should be showing the smallest bump at the bottom of her belly. Just the slightest bump that only she could tell was there. Later it would swell, grow and stretch until she brought into the world a _child_. A handsome prince, or a beautiful princess. It did not matter which. Whatever it was, she would love it. It would be hers. Her child. Her _legacy_.

But when Cersei pressed her hand into her stomach, it was flat and barren, and always would be. Tears slid down her expressionless face. Wiping them away quickly, she made for her chambers. Euron had waited long enough.


	9. Dragons in Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jon, Daenerys, and the Queen's army arrive to Castle Winterfell. Jon reunites with his only living brother. The people of Winterfell see the dragons in the flesh. Daenerys makes a promise. Tyrion, Davos, and Varys visit Gendry at the forges. Tyrion helps mediate the summit with the Northern Lords._

**Dragons in Winterfell**

As a boy, Jon had counted one hundred-three steps－ give or take a few depending on the horse－between the stone arch and the South gate of Winterfell. The stone arch passed over his head, and he began counting down. Ahead, the town of Winterfell sprung up sprung up from the snow. 

It was all he could do to not heel his horse to a run and close the distance that much faster. Instead, he rode at a swift walk, side-by-side with Daenerys. His Queen held her chin high, despite the spiteful glares of the Northerners crowding close to the road. They were as silent now as they had been at White Harbor, and at every settlement between there and here.

Jorah, Grey Worm, Sam and Missandei rode close behind them. The Unsullied army and the Dothraki horde rode farther back. Gone now was the dense tree cover of the Wolfswood, and every soldier could be seen marching towards Winterfell.

In the winter, the road running South of Winterfell was usually a sinuous ribbon of pure and unbroken white, but as far back as Jon could see the road looked as a dark river of brown and black, flowing steadily North. All the Queen's soldiers would never fit inside the gates, and most would stop and make their camps just outside the walls.

The hundred paces crawled beneath the eager steps of Jon's great black destrier, until finally, the gates passed over his head, and he was home. Three steps early; in all his years he had never managed to count a perfect hundred steps between the South gate and the stone arch. Jon smiled widely. Ahead, Sansa was waiting with her hands folded diplomatically in front.

His sister was dressed in her usual darkness, in a black leather gown and dark gray fur shawl streaked with black. A cloak of black wool hung down from the shawl, trimmed in silver with the intricate needlework that Sansa had always prided herself on. Across her chest she wore a polished iron chain.

Next to her, in a wheeling chair, sat Bran, dressed in simple brown leathers and furs. Jon's breath caught when he saw him. He had received word that Bran was alive, but it had not been real until he set his eyes on him.

Unable to wait any longer, Jon looked at Daenerys, who met his eye then looked forward with a slight smile. Jon heeled his horse to a trot and closed the gap to his family quickly. He swung off his great black palfrey, dropped to his knees and pulled Bran into a tight hug. At first, he did not notice that Bran did not return it.

"I thought you were dead," Jon whispered fiercely to his younger brother.

"Not quite," Bran replied. "Hello, Jon." His younger brother sounded odd. Not like himself, but then again Jon had not expected him to be the same boy he had been all those years ago. How long had it been since Jon had left for the Wall, as Bran lay in his bed, unresponsive, and caught between life and death?

Jon pulled back and looked at Bran's face, and felt his own face fall when he saw it. The darkness in Bran's eyes was too deep, too empty. There was no emotion on his face, nothing to say Bran was glad to see him, or upset, or nervous about the Dragon Queen.

Nothing.

"What's happened to you?" Jon asked quickly.

"I became the Three-Eyed Raven," Bran explained simply. Jon looked at Sansa expectantly, but his sister did not seem to notice him; Sansa was staring at the Queen.

Daenerys had dismounted her white palfrey and walked calmly towards them with, Ser Jorah by her side. The Queen's hands were clasped in front of her white fur and red wool overcoat. The thick, silver dragon chain that was her symbol of office wrapped about her chest from her right shoulder. Over that shoulder, connected to the dragon chain, hung a scaled red cape cascading down to behind her knees. A scarf of matching red wrapped around her throat. 

Looking back to Sansa, Jon was sure she had not noticed his appreciative glance. Sansa was still staring at Daenerys with hard eyes.

"Sansa," Jon demanded, standing up from his crouch. Sansa looked at him with almost the same neutrality on her face. It pushed Jon a step back, confused and suddenly uncomfortable. This was not the homecoming he had expected. What was wrong with Bran? Why were Sansa's eyes so empty?

_Where is Arya_? Jon thought, looking around desperately.

"Lady Sansa," Daenerys greeted her warmly after she had taken her place by his side. "Your brother has told me much about you. Jon speaks nothing but praise for you, and your kingdom. The North is a truly beautiful country. I have traveled far in my life, and yet I have never seen its like anywhere else."

A smile twitched Jon's lips. When he looked at Sansa, the smile collapsed. Sansa's lips were curved in a slight smile, but her eyes had not warmed at all. If anything, they were colder than before.

"Winterfell is yours, Your Grace," Sansa replied with a curtsy and a slight bow. Daenerys nodded, still smiling but looking tight in the eyes.

"Where's Arya?" Jon asked, looking around the courtyard.

"I'm sure she'll find you as soon as you're alone." Sansa replied with a quiet scorn Jon did not understand.

"There's something you need to know," Bran said suddenly. When Jon turned to look at him, Bran was looking at Daenerys with the same emptiness in his eyes. "The Night King has taken Viserion into his army. They've broken through the Wall. They'll be here soon."  
  


The words came as a frozen knife to her heart. The Mother of Dragons had somehow avoided confronting the reality that _all_ those slain by the Night King were fated to join him in his march. Even her dragon. For a moment Daenerys' eyes widened, her mouth dropped open the slightest bit. 

Quickly, the Queen cast her eyes down a moment, collecting herself. _You are the blood of the dragon. You must have fire in your eyes, not fear._ With a breath, the Dragon Queen fought back the dread which clawed desperately to reach her face. From the first moment, there had only passed a heartbeat, perhaps two.

"How soon?" Daenerys demanded, not sure she wanted the answer.

"I don't know... It's dangerous for me to watch in on the Night King." Bran lifted his sleeve, where a handprint was burned bluish-black onto his flesh. "I can only watch him when he's distracted." 

"What about the Night's Watch?" Jon asked urgently.

"The Night's Watch has been destroyed." Brans voice held no sorrow and no fear. Daenerys had learned long ago to have strength, for her people, but even she could not understand the empty tranquility of Bran's voice. Daenerys looked to Jon.

"Gods help us," Jon whispered, putting his hand to his mouth.

The Dragon Queen had forced the fear from her face, but it weighed heavy in her heart, hidden away where none could see it. _I told them I do not fear the storm the Night brings,_ she reminded herself. _Only I must know those words for a lie..._ In truth, she had never known terror such as this. Daenerys raised her eyes to the sky and waited.

The dragons answered her call with a pair of distant roars.

Daenerys barely heard the gasps of the crowd. As her children called their coming, all else drowned in the flood of relief, eroding away her fear and releasing the tightness in her throat. 

The screeching came again, even louder, approaching quickly. The tears that had threatened her eyes withdrew, and were quickly forgotten. Then, for the first time since Dragonstone, the Mother of Dragons saw her children.

With a final pair of roars, the dragons plummeted from the sky directly above, Drogon from the East and Rhaegal from the West. Straight down they plunged, until they spread their wings and circled the Castle, letting all those gathered below witness their enormity. Screeching and bellowing, they descended as they circled, and finally they came in to land on either side of the courtyard. 

The rushing winds that came with each beat of their massive wings cleared the fresh snow from the ground, sending it spinning up into the air and swirling wildly.

Together, the dragons landed with a spectacular crash, their beautiful frills quivering madly as Drogon and Rhaeghal lowered their serpentine necks to hang their heads just above the courtyard. The dripping silver of their fangs was bared for all to see.

All around her, Daenerys realized, people were screaming. Some cowered, others ran and hid. Even Sansa's neutral mask had shattered into fright. The Lady of Winterfell took two staggering steps back from Drogon on the East side of the courtyard, then realized that had taken her two steps closer to Rhaegal on the West. Sansa stopped where she was and stared, wild eyed, her head whipping to either side to keep each dragon in her sight at once.

The dragons spread their wings, casting shadow over the entire courtyard, then raised their heads and roared. A proud smile bloomed on her face. They had grown again, since Dragonstone. It was common knowledge that dragons grew until they died. 

Rhaegal was now as massive as Drogon had been when she had flown him to battle in the Reach; Drogon still outsized Rhaegal; the Winged Shadow nearly ripped the wall of the courtyard down when he landed. Together, the dragons made all of Winterfell Castle look understated, and their very nearness warmed the air of the courtyard. 

If dragons weighed as much as they looked, the walls they perched on would have been reduced to rubble; however, one of the first things Daenerys had learned of dragons is that they were remarkably light for their size.

The first time she had held them, they had felt no heavier than sunlight on her skin...

Still, one or two stones tumbled from the wall to the ground, as the dragons folded their wings. They fell quiet, save the rumbling thunder of their breath. Everyone stared at them, and the dragons turned to their mother, their frills calming. A hush fell over the courtyard as faces slowly turned, following the dragons' eyes.

With her courage restored, the Dragon Queen walked herself up the large staircase that led to Winterfell's Great Hall with a calm smile on her lips. Jon, Ser Jorah, Grey Worm, and Missandei were right on her heels. Idri, the former High Priestess of the Dosh Khaleen, followed as well. They all stopped and stood on the lowest step while Daenerys climbed to the top. 

Gazing over the crowd, she saw every Northern eye flitting anxiously between her and the dragons. Sam Tarly, at the very front of the crowd, was the exception. Sam stared at the dragons with wonder and awe glowing on his boyish face; he smiled with a wide, open mouth, with his hands clutched in front of him. Hiding the smile it might have given her, she steeled herself to stony calm before she spoke.

"I am Daenerys Targaryen," she began, her voice calm and clear.

"You may have heard the lies of my enemies, and you may yet choose to believe them... but it does not matter. The truth is what it is. My truth is that I have brought all my power here to the North, to fight for my people in the Great War. I have come North to destroy the Night King and free his slaves from the chains of undeath."

Drogon and Rhaegal cawed to one another, their sharp voices filled with rage and a lust for vengeance. A soft whistle from Rhaegal, at the very end of his call, spoke to her of Viserion. 

"Jon Snow－ against all advice－ came to Dragonstone to ask for my aid in the Great War, and I will give it. You may fear me, despise me, doubt me if you wish; I cannot stop you. Despite your suspicions, despite your bigotry, I _will_ save you. Not because I have found love or even gratitude from the North, but because it is a Queen's duty to protect her people." 

The Queen let that hang over the quiet crowd a moment, while the fire within her raged.

"Iam Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, and the blood of Old Valyria. I _am_ the Unburnt! The Breaker of Chains, and the Mother of Dragons,and I _swear_ to you... Before the dawn breaks over the Long Night, the Night King will know that _his,_ is not the _only magic_ of this world!"

The dragons raised their massive heads to the sky and flexed their wings. They roared, so loud this time that the stones beneath her feet trembled. Launching off the walls, the dragons took flight, the beats of their wings sending up another snowstorm in the courtyard.

When the snow settled, the same mistrustful silence she had come to expect from the North hung over the crowd, but for the first time it did not offend her. _Loyalty is won by action, not words._ Once, Daenerys did not have her Unsullied, not until had she paid for them... not until she had _saved_ them.

_They will love me then, as much as they fear me now,_ she promised herself, gazing over the unhappy crowd. The silence dragged on for a moment, but broke suddenly when Sam Tarly, front and center of the crowd, gave a cheer.

The only one among a sea of grim faces, but Sam did not let up. He clapped and hollered, pumping his fists unabashedly, and did not seem to notice any of the glares he received for it.

Jon began clapping as well, more collectedly, turning a proud smile from Sam to her. Jorah and Missandei joined a beat later. The Unsullied soldiers, not a beat behind Grey Worm, rapped their spears on the ground rhythmically. Idri raised her hands and began to sing, and the seven Dothraki who had been invited into the courtyard, picked up the cheer. The copper-skinned women chanted, the men hollered, wheeling their horses. 

The ovation spread quickly from the crowd before her to outside the walls, as her _Khalasar,_ and the rest of the Unsullied gathered around Winterfell joined in.

An astonished smile bloomed from the stone of her face. Some of the Northern women even clapped: with tight lips and narrowed eyes. Elsewhere in the crowd, one or two Northern men gave minuscule nods before turning away abruptly. They may as well have cheered for the gladness it gave her, to see _something_ from the Northerners besides stubborn silence and sullen stares.

The Northern children had broken away from their parents, and now crowded together in a small group, hopping and shouting like crazed hounds as they reached their hands up towards the dragons circling high above.

Daenerys' joyous smile fell when her sweeping gaze settled on Lady Sansa. The Lady of Winterfell was watching her with the same mask she had worn earlier, though she clapped right along with the crowd.

It was that look, not the sudden icy gale that blew then that made Daenerys feel cold.   
  


The craftsmen of Winterfell had no time to attend the Queen's address on the front steps of the Castle, and neither had the three men making their way down it. Even when the dragons descended, the craftsmen hardly paused in their preparations. Tyrion watched them hustling between their tasks approvingly, walking between Varys and Ser Davos.

"He's around here somewhere," Ser Davos mumbled again. "Look for the busiest forge, he'll be there."

The old smuggler was right. Hard at work at the largest, most hectic forge, Gendry did not see them approach as he swung a mallet to a chisel. From a great chunk of obsidian, Gendry chipped off smaller, razor sharp pieces. A pile taller than Tyrion of shiny black bits of stood to Gendry's left. Starting at that pile, a crowded line of men and women waited with empty carts. Each took their turn to loading up obsidian pieces as quickly as they could swing a shovel, before hurriedly wheeling them off to the next station.

"Excuse me!" Ser Davos shouted over the fray. "We're looking for a Flea Bottom bastard working the largest forge in Winterfell!" Gendry's eyes snapped up from his task for a moment to grin at Davos before bending his head back down. 

Gendry did not stop working, or smiling, as he spoke. "Well, if it isn't the oldest man in Westeros, somehow still alive, now consort to a Dragon Queen," he replied in the same dry, approving tone. "Plus a royal dwarf, and a spider with no balls?" Gendry shook his head. "If we live long enough, we'll make for a terrible song."

"Hah!" Ser Davos crowd. "Gods, boy, but it's good to see you." 

"You too, old man," Gendry said, glancing up with a grin. 

Tyrion strode forward impatiently, holding out a thick roll of loose parchment as well as a smaller roll bearing a Direwolf seal. Gendry smiled to himself, but did not look up to stop working, much less take the papers in hand. Tyrion, feeling irritable, dropped the papers on the table next to him.

"Jon Snow requires these designs to be completed as soon as possible. Queen Daenerys will supply you with any extra hands or resources you may need. Our people make for Craftmens' Alley as we speak," Tyrion explained importantly.

"As _you_ speak," Gendry replied without looking up from his work, earning a chuckle from Ser Davos. Tyrion fixed the old man with a hard look, but Davos grinned unabashedly.

"Nothing wrong with a bit of humor before the world ends," Ser Davos said shamelessly. 

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "Ser Davos will stay here to supply you with _humor_ and provide instruction on the purpose of the devices I've designed," he said stiffly before turning.

Varys followed him. The two walked together down the Craftmen's Alley together at an ambling pace. The two of them would be the first to arrive at the summit, even if they crawled. 

"You seem tense," Varys declared, his eyes scanning the bustling crowd around them. 

"Do I?" Tyrion snapped in reply. He did not glance up as he walked, his balled fists swinging at his sides. "The only ruler I've ever believed in seems more likely by the day to remove me as her Hand. My arrogance has killed one of the last three dragons that the world will ever see _._ Not to mention, _that world_ will probably end soon. Now tell me, _why_ would I be tense?" 

"And touchy," Varys replied as if continuing his sentence from before. "You shouldn't blame yourself for what happened to the dragon. I am told Cersei grows more isolated and unstable by the day, but not even I would have guessed she would turn the end of life itself into _political_ leverage. I must admit... I've wondered if that is our Queen's intent as well. Daenerys seems as strained as you, of late."

"Daenerys has lost a child," Tyrion said contritely. "The North resists her, despite her what she has already lost, and all that she will lose still to save them. She's lost faith in her highest ranking adviser... And she still doesn't trust _you_ , and yet here _I am_ spending my time with you anyways."

"Like a fool," Varys replied warmly. "I've always admired the trust you place in me, and that you keep your friends close no matter what it costs to your reputation."

"My reputation was fucked from the beginning," Tyrion said bitterly. "I don't think keeping company with a rose-scented eunuch could do much more harm to it."

Varys lifted his sleeve to his nose. "It's too much," Tyrion insisted. Varys lowered his sleeve and frowned.

"I am afraid the North warms to our Queen more slowly than the spring they never bother to acknowledge is coming," Varys lamented.

"They will," Tyrion said as they made their way inside the Castle for the summit with the Northern lords. "They must," he finished with less certainty. In all his reading and travels, he had never even _heard_ of a place as unwelcoming to strangers as the North.

_Offer a wolf a flank of meat, it's as likely as not to take your hand with it_ , Tyrion thought grimly. As the door shut behind him, the roars of the dragons－ thunderous even through the thick stone wall of the Castle－ obscured the _click_ of the latch. Sharing a slight glance, he and Varys made their way to the head table, which had been set with four large, sturdy chairs. Tyrion took his seat to the farthest left, and Varys stood just behind him.

Inside the Great Hall of Winterfell, a few candles burned on each table, and a handful of braziers pushed light onto the drab stone greys and wood browns of the hall. Tyrion had always hated the Northern style. It lacked for any color and flair. 

The large door on the far side of the room opened, and Queen Daenerys strode through it with her head high and her arms folded behind, with Jon Snow at her side. Sam, Grey Worm, Jorah, and Missandei followed just behind.

The red and white fur gown Daenerys wore complimented the fairness of her skin and silver of her hair, tied back in a three-fold braid, which hinted at the Northern style but still bore all the intricacy that was emblematic of the Dragon Queen. The silver dragon chain about her shoulder glinted with each brazier she passed.

The rest of her entourage looked no less regal, except perhaps Grey Worm in his standard brown leather with layers of dark wool underneath, and Sam in his usual blacks and browns. Jon Snow looked as serious as ever in his studded black jerkin, clad in dark furs. Ser Jorah wore his dark, gleaming armor with the red Targaryen dragon emblazoned on the breastplate. Missandei looked almost dangerous in her trim black leather gown, hardened about the shoulders and with a fiery red scarf set about her throat. 

By comparison, Tyrion felt almost plain in his charcoal tunic, despite the intricate, gold-threaded imperial trellis on the shoulders. Remembering the Hand's pin sitting proudly over his breast, he felt less plain.

Tyrion rose when Daenerys entered, and stood until his Queen had taken her seat at the head table, in the left of the two center seats. Jon Snow took the other. Jorah, Sam, Grey Worm, and Missandei stood behind, with Varys. No one spoke.

Just after the others had taken their places, Lady Sansa entered through the door, with Brienne of Tarth following in her usual dark armor. The Northern lords arrived next, streaming in one after the other and taking their seats at the tables below.

The quiet in the hall only grew thicker as more Northern lords entered. Tyrion shifted uncomfortably under the stern gaze of young Lyanna Mormont. Finally, when all had seated, Daenerys looked at Jon. The former King in the North stood up, looking as grim as ever.

"I will not waste time. My lords... do not forget who, exactly, we are at war with. Do not forget our _common_ enemy: an army that does not stop, a king that will not negotiate, and the end of life itself. By now, you have heard that I've bent the knee, to Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen," Jon raised his voice over the grumbling that ensued. "She saved my life beyond the wall, and she will save _all_ of us. And I expect all of _you_ to show her the respect she deserves."

The Northern lords' grumbling only got louder, but not one of them raised their voices enough to be heard over one another. Tyrion noticed that Lady Lyanna Mormont remained silent. They all stopped arguing when Sansa spoke.

"My brother is right, my lords. There is no winning the fight against the dead without the allies and resources that Queen Daenerys has generously supplied. I will _not_ have _anyone_ else following Lord Cerwyn down the path of treason."

Tyrion spoke up. "Indeed. Cley Cerwyn has pulled his force of two-thousand back to his Castle. A selfish act of cowardice, and one that has significantly lessened our chances of victory."

Lord Manderly stood. "And who are you to call Lord Cerwyn a coward? We all heard what was done at the Reach. Only a fool would not fear dragonfire!"

Lord Glover stood as well, sweeping a gaze over the rest of the lords. "We've all seen her army, a few hundred of my men can not make any difference!"

Tyrion did not miss the cold look Daenerys gave them both. The clamor of dissent returned, only louder, more chaotic, and this time interrupted by Lady Sansa.

"Enough!" Sansa barked, and silence returned to the hall. "My lords, your banners have been called. If you abandon your oaths and pull your forces back now, that would be more than treason. That would be a betrayal not only to every man, woman, and child in the North, but to life itself. Cley Cerwyn was the first to betray the living. Who will be the next?" Sansa challenged.

The dare hung in the silent hall as the lords looked at each other. Lord Manderly sat. Lord Glover followed suit a beat later.

"So you agree, Lady Sansa?" Daenerys asked in a soft tone that Tyrion knew to be searching. "Lord Cerwyn has committed treason?"

Lady Sansa turned to face Daenerys halfway. "Lord Cerwyn has betrayed the North, and when the Great War is won he will receive his trial, sentence, and punishment according to the laws of the North," Sansa replied in a tone that matched her eyes. The lords grumbled agreement.

"The punishment for treason is death," Tyrion declared sharply before his Queen had any opportunity to respond. "As it has been for centuries. But in order to offer Lord Cerwyn his punishment, we must be alive. Which means, _we_ all need to survive _this_ battle first. Whatever happens with the North will happen _after_ we survive the Long Night. Until we do, we must remember our common enemy." Tyrion cast a meaningful glance and Jon Snow, who nodded back gratefully.

"We must discuss preparations," Jon began authoritatively.

Tyrion cast a sweeping gaze over the lords present, and he did not miss Lyanna Mormont's small, shrewd nod. _Perhaps there is hope for a successful alliance_ , Tyrion thought, though he cast a nervous look at Sansa all the same. 


	10. Three Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Arya and Jon reunite. Sam and Brienne each make a bold move with the Dragon Queen. Daenerys recalls the words of a dead man._

The afternoon in the Godswood was more silent than usual, for no one was there. Anyone who might normally come to pray was laboring, preparing for the Great War or the Queen's feast. Arya drifted slowly between the trees around the Weirwood, enjoying the silence and waiting with infinite patience for it to break. The brown leather jerkin beneath her fur half-cloak was plenty warm, despite the biting cold. 

Hours passed, and she heard nothing louder than the whisper of snowfall.

When the footsteps came, Arya slid behind a tree, despite knowing who it was. The black and silver pelt across his shoulders hung lower on the right side, leaving room on the left for the wolfshead pommel that peeked out from his long, charcoal cloak. Crossing his chest, the two leather suspenders that kept his heavy cloak on had been dyed darkest red. The studded, black leather jerkin he wore beneath his cloak had a kingly look. 

While Arya watched, unseen, Jon knelt before the Weirwood tree.

With his head bowed and his face drawn, Jon whispered a prayer to the Old Gods. Arya crept behind him until she stood only a few paces back, where she waited with her arms folded behind. She wondered if Jon's was a true faith... or if he simply kept the Old Gods near the place in his heart that housed their father's memory.

When Jon rose and turned, he started a bit to see someone behind him, then half a moment later the realization dawned. Without a word, Jon rushed forward, scooped her up off her feet and spun her in a circle. Her brother held her so tight she could hardly breathe.

"I have missed you," Jon whispered fiercely, his voice thick. He held her too tightly for her to respond. Jon released her from the hug and set her down, but he kept both his hands on her shoulders and smiled down at her. Just as father used to.

"You still have it?" Jon wondered when his eyes fell to her sword. " _Needle_... Did you ever learn how to use it?"

Arya grinned at his ignorance and nodded to his sword. Jon sniffed, grinned, and took his hands off her shoulders, pulling the enormous Valyrian steel blade from its sheath.

"It's called _Longclaw,_ " Jon said before she could ask.

" _Longclaw_ ," Arya repeated, grinning and running her hand over the smooth edge of the blade, admiring the Wolfshead pommel. "Direwolves don't have claws..." she remarked, and Jon ducked his head with a breathy laugh.

"It belonged to Jeor Mormont. When he gave it to me, he switched the bear pommel out for a wolf. I didn't have the heart to rename it. What's that one?" Jon asked, nodding at her new dagger.

"Haven't decided yet," Arya said as she pulled the dagger from it sheath and flourished it in her hand a moment. After much practice, the dagger had become as much an extension of her arm as _Needle_.

Her brother sniffed a laugh and grinned down at her, and Arya's breath caught. Jon looked so much like father when he smiled. 

Arya threw herself into Jon, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face into the furs on his chest. Jon held her, with her feet up off the ground, rocking slightly until he finally set her down again. By then, the tears in her eyes had rubbed off on his furs, and her eyes were dry again.

"Have you seen Bran?" Arya asked after the long, quiet embrace. Jon flinched and she knew he had.

"What's happened to him?" Jon asked hollowly.

"Bran went North of the Wall... and something else came back. It calls itself the Three-Eyed Raven. Says it can see everything that's ever happened, and everything happening right now... I think it could lie to the Faceless Men, if it wanted to."

Jon balked at her a few moments before he shook his head. "Faceless Men?"

Arya blinked. She felt so close to her brother again that she had forgotten how long it had been. Not a month past, Jon had thought her long dead.

"The assassins that trained me across the Narrow Sea," Arya explained, as if it were a simple thing. Now was not the time to tell Jon the eerie specifics of her training. Jon looked at her strangely, but sensing her reluctance to say more, he moved on.

"And Sansa?" Jon asked, worry plain in his voice.

Quickly Arya lapsed into the Game of Faces; the game of lies. Lies were always more believable when they were told next to the truth. It was how you won the game.

"She hasn't been sleeping... She doesn't trust your new Queen. Spends most of her time in Craftmen's Alley, or the crypts, or in Mother and Father's room. Avoiding me..."

Jon sighed sadly, and gazed slowly around the Godswood. A bit of the sadness in his eyes eased, and he looked back to her.

"Sansa may not see it yet... but Daenerys will save her, and everyone else, whether they trust her or not... I think she can make the world a better place. For all of us."

"You love her," Arya concluded easily. The lie had been plain on his unpracticed face from the first moment she saw him. Now she knew what it was. 

Jon's eyes widened. He looked away, and his eyes searched for an answer. After a few moments of floundering, he sighed and met her eyes again.

"I do," Jon agreed blithely. "And she loves me, I think." He beamed with pride as he said it. "I'm sorry I lied... We were only keeping it secret until the Great War is won. We can't have the North divided any more than it already is, not when the dead come! Please, Arya. You have to trust me."

The bitterness in his voice about the lie－ even one told simply by avoiding truth－ was plain. So was the desperation in his voice. Arya nodded, mostly to herself.

"No one will know," she promised as she unsheathed _Needle_ , turning to the side and holding the point towards him.

The realization bloomed into a roguish smile on his face. Jon pulled _Longclaw_ from its sheath and held the point at her. Before _Longclaw_ had cleared its sheath, Arya had danced around stand behind him. _Needle_ was pressed against the small of his back, just over his spine. Jon laughed, stepped forward, and turned, smacking her blade away.

Together, they sparred in the Godswood until the sky grew dark, and the time came to attend the Queen's feast.

"The feast will be open to all." That had been the Queen's command. _If it is to be their last, let it also be their grandest,_ Daenerys had thought proudly, and sadly to herself after. 

The chambers Jon had shown her to were lavish. They offered some long-desired privacy after the march North and the tense summit with the Northern lords. Perhaps a bit smaller than she was used to, but somehow that was a comfort.

Fine furniture decorated the room. A desk of dark, gleaming wood, a large bookshelf, and a few clawfoot tables. Upon one of the walls hung three woolen hangings: two of them grey with white Direwolves emblazoned in the center. Between them, a black banner with the red Targaryen dragon. Covering most of the floor was a thick silver carpet, patterned around the edges with blue flowers, which Daenerys did not recognize.

On the North end of the room, facing the large feather bed, was a great hearth. Two chairs, finely carved and padded with red wool, sat before the hearth. The Queen sat in one of those chairs: her shoulders slouching forward, her hands clasped together, her elbows resting on the padded armrests. 

She had sunk into the chair just as soon as Jon had excused himself to visit the Godswood. Ever since, she had stared at the empty chair beside her. Jon had invited her to come, but she had said no.

Partially, it had been the guards standing within earshot that had made her refuse. The other reason being that it was their first night in Winterfell, and she would have callers to attend to. _There are always callers..._ Daenerys closed her eyes, obscuring the empty chair beside her from view. Next time Jon invited her to the Godswood, she would say yes.

 _Surely,_ Daenerys thought, _I can take a stroll without the realm collapsing beneath me_... but the thought was not quite as convincing as she had hoped it would be. Dropping her hands into her lap, she pulled her gaze away from the empty chair.

The white fur overcoat that kept her warmest in the freezing winds of the North hung by the fire. Now she wore her black gown, high-collared, thick and warm, with silver fur trim peaking out at the neckline and the cuffs. The red silk wrap about her waist matched the scaled cape, hanging from the dragon chain. Tucked at the back of her intricate three-fold braid was the jeweled silver dragon comb.

Daenerys watched the flames indifferently until another knock came at the door, and she closed her eyes. Taking a breath, pushing her shoulders back, and feeling too wearied for any more calls, Daenerys stood up answered it. 

To her surprise, the newly named Lord Tarly stood on the other side of the door － both his hands stuffed under his cloak－ wearing an enormous sword on his belt.

With a tired, but genuine smile, Daenerys let the door fall open, and Sam shuffled through it with more thank you's than she thought necessary. She closed the door behind him.

"I will have to be quick, Your Grace. I've much to do before I leave tomorrow," Sam began apologetically. Nobody ever assumed a leader was glad when things were quick. Sam took a breath and pulled his hands from under his cloak. 

With both hands, Sam clutched a small roll of parchment. No larger than her little finger. The plain white wax that sealed it was unadorned.

Daenerys looked at it, then raised her eyes to his. "Is there something you would tell me, Sam?" Daenerys liked using his first name, without the title. Sam seemed far more comfortable with his own name than "Lord Tarly," anyways.

"I would," Sam bobbed his head nervously, casting his eyes down. "Only... I can't... Not until after the Long Night. Seeing as I'm to leave in the morning with Lady Stark and the others..." Sam held the sealed letter up a bit higher, still using both his hands to hold the tiny scroll. Daenerys had to force herself to look him in the eye instead of staring at it.

"This holds a secret you need to know," Sam declared, "you and Jon both. I've already given Jon his, and he gave me his word he wouldn't open it until the battle was won. You... I think you ought to find out together. I know he'd tell you himself but..." Sam trailed off, still looking at his feet and round the room nervously. 

With a breath, Sam drew himself up. "Jon was my King," Sam declared. "I chose him. But _Jon_ chose _you_ , over himself. Now... I know why he did. So I will tell you what I told him."

Daenerys held her hand out, trying to look comforting, but the urge to simply take it from his hands was overwhelming. Sam released one hand from the letter, but he drew it back closer to himself.

The breath she took then might have been a hiss, if she had not softened it. Her eyes begged the question for her. Sam took another deep breath.

"Your Grace, forgive me, but... I need your word that you won't look until after the battle is won. Your word."

Daenerys narrowed her eyes, and raised her chin higher to meet his gaze with more authority. Sam did not flinch. Already, Sam Tarly carried himself more like a Lord than the man she had met at Whiteharbor.

Not very long ago, her word and her name were all that she had in the world. Holding his eyes, Daenerys Targaryen made herself be certain before she answered.

"Very well. You have my word. I will not open it until the battle is won. I swear it, by the Old Gods and the New." Tyrion had taught her that phrase. Ambivalent as she was to the Gods, it was still something that was said all throughout Westeros. Something to say when you made a promise you intended to keep.

The sealed letter in his hand lurched forward.

It hung in the air for a moment. Somehow, the urge to take it had vanished, but she reached forward and took it all the same. _Such a small thing to bear such a great weight,_ she mused, staring at it a moment. Daenerys looked at Sam again before she turned.

Immediately she went to her bedside table, opened the drawer and drew out a lockbox. A small but heavy thing, ornately patterned in gleaming silver, rich green, and darkest blue. The colors were resplendent, and the thick steel just beneath them, invulnerable. A gift from Ser Jorah, the lockbox was of Quarthian make, and impossible to open without the key. The steel key, instead of teeth, bore a hollow, intricate shape. _A trinity knot_ , according to Ser Jorah. It reminded Daenerys of three leaves stacked atop one another, each pointing its own way.

Daenerys placed the letter inside the empty box, locked it, and replaced the box inside the drawer. From the same drawer she pulled a long, darkened silver chain out, and slipped the strange key onto it. As she turned, she put the chain around her neck, and tucked the key into the folds of her gown.

When Daenerys went to move back to Sam, she stopped in surprise to see he had dropped to one knee. Over it was lain the enormous Valyrian steel sword that he had worn in on his belt.

The Queen looked surprised when she saw him kneeling, and Sam smiled, alternating between looking at her and the Valyrian steel sword on his knee.

" _Heartsbane_ , it's called," Sam said. "It's been in the Tarly family for five-hundred years... I was never supposed to have it... and I'm a Gods-awful swordsman, but I suppose it is mine." Sam took a short breath, certain in what he would say, and yet somehow, still nervous to say it. "I swear it to you, Daenerys Stormborn. The sword is yours, my Queen, to do with as you see fit." Sam held the sword up with both his hands, his head bent down.

Daenerys reached down, but she did not touch his sword. Instead, her hand gently cupped his chin and drew his face up. The firelight danced playfully in the green of her eyes, turned up at the edges with her smile.

Of course, she was beautiful, but not at _all_ like how Gilly was beautiful to him. The Dragon Queen bore an ethereal beauty, like sun breaking through parting storm clouds. Like the smell of fresh rain after a long drought, or the softness of sand after too much time spent on rough seas. Her lips parted to speak, and Sam held his breath.

"I'm not much good with a sword either," the Queen said, and a breathy chuckle rushed out of him as he ducked his head a moment. Daenerys grinned wider, her eyes crinkling at the edges. She took her hand out from Sam's chin and offered it to him. Gingerly, he took her hand and rose to his feet.

"Go and find Ser Jorah," she said. "Tell him what you have done here... _Heartsbane_ , was it?" The Queen smiled sadly to herself, closing her eyes for a beat. "Yes. I believe that sword was meant for him."

Sam nodded solemnly. "I will see you at King's Landing, Your Grace," he promised before he turned and departed through the door.

Another knock came not a minute after Sam had left. Thinking it was Jorah, she opened it with a smile that fell quickly.

Brienne of Tarth stood on the other side of the door, looking grim. Daenerys hesitated before letting her through. It was no secret whom Brienne was sworn to obey, and try as she may... Daenerys could not bring herself to trust Sansa. The Northern Lady's obvious contempt for the _Dragon Queen_ had left Daenerys little choice in the matter, let alone that several Northern lords were still secretly heralding Lady Stark as the _Queen in the North_...

 _According to Varys_ , Daenerys reminded herself sternly as she let the door fall open and moved towards the hearth. "Lady Brienne," Daenerys greeted formally. This was their first official meeting, though Daenerys had heard much and more about the legendary fighting woman of Westeros.

Brienne was known by all who knew her as a woman of honor, and a remarkably skilled fighter... but not an assassin. _Still, she is sworn to Sansa, not me_ , Daenerys thought as she drew comfort in the still-open door. Brienne, in all her armor, stopped only a few steps inside the door, with her hands folded behind her back and her chin held high.

"Your Grace, apologies for my intrusion. There is something you must know. Jamie Lannister is in the dungeons below Winterfell."

Daenerys' mouth fell open the slightest bit before she clamped her jaws shut, though her eyes still widened enough to compensate.

Brienne went on. "Ser Jaime has abandoned Cersei and requests leave to fight with the living in the Great War as he swore to... You do not know me well Your Grace, and I understand that this must be... quite _difficult_ for you to believe, but I have known Ser Jamie for many years. Each time I met him, he had learned more of honor than the last, and I truly believe his intentions are honest... I will vouch for him, on my honor."

A searing heat burned in her stomach and spread throughout her chest. Clutching her hands in front of her, the last Targaryen took a slow step towards Brienne.

 _What sort of fool would vouch for the honor Jamie Lannister?_ The _Kingslayer_. The _Oathbreaker_. The _traitor_ who had murdered her father. The _villain_ that she and Viserys had whispered of as young children, during the cold, fearful nights of their exile. Those nights they had survived in dank gutters and dark, drafty alleyways, with no coin, no fire and no blankets; it had made them feel warm and wealthy to dream of that one day when they would return to Westeros, and together, they would burn Jaime Lannister alive. 

Every cold night, every hired blade, every _betrayal_ , every _loss_ Daenerys Targaryen had endured and survived... _all her pain_ was the result of Jaime Lannister's crime.

The Dragon Queen took another step. The rage boiled in her stomach, stung like hot acid up her throat and burned in her eyes. _How_ could she be expected to pardon the man who murdered her father, and cost her entire family their lives, their _home_? Brienne's honorable reputation aside, she had no _familiarity_ with this woman.

Yet... all of Westeros knew her, and Brienne of Tarth was not here to _advocate_ for Jaime Lannister, she was _vouching_ for him. On her _honor_?

_Honor is not enough._

The third step brought Daenerys directly in front of Brienne, and she held her eyes for a long time. _Brienne of Tarth_. No matter whom the Queen had asked about her, be it Tyrion, Varys, Jon, or Sam, the answer was more or less the same. Brienne of Tarth was a woman of honor, and perhaps the best with a blade in all of Westeros. 

Once... those very titles had belonged to Ser Barristan Selmy.

A dear friend, and a loyal Queensguard, Ser Barristan had been a man of honor if there ever were one. He had also been the first to tell Daenerys the truth of the Mad King's brutality. Every day since, Daenerys had reminded herself of his words.

_"When the people rose up against him, your father set their towns and castles aflame. He murdered sons in front of their fathers. He burned men alive with Wildfire, and laughed as they screamed. And his efforts to stamp out dissent... led to a rebellion that killed every Targaryen, except two."_

The last Targaryen stared calmly into Brienne's eyes, searching them for even a touch of uncertainty, a hint of doubt... and found none. The growl of a wolf held more warmth than her answer.

"Not on your honor. On your _life_. I will allow you one chance to change your mind. Otherwise... leave me," she hissed.

Brienne nodded without hesitation, bowed, and left without another word. The door shut behind her. For near a minute, the Queen stared at the latch, with a fire raging in her chest.

The feast was to start soon, but Daenerys threw open the door and all but ran to the dungeons, with her two Unsullied door guards at her heels. "Find Ser Jorah," she commanded as she passed a third guard, halfway down the hall.


	11. The Kingslayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In the dungeons of Winterfell, The Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister, awaits the judgment of the Mad King's daughter.  
>  *WARNING* Contains non-graphic mentions of rape._

The hay floor of the dungeon was clean and well padded, not even uncomfortable, especially not while munching on bread with dried apples and cheese. The Northmen were a dreadfully dull bunch, but Jamie had to admit they treated their prisoners well. Even him.

Two meals per day, plain but fresh, were served in the dungeons of Winterfell. The torches were lit with the rising sun, and all but the candles were put out at night so that it was dark, but not pitched black. There was even a small barred window at the very top of his cell, to let some natural light in, though it was dark now of course. It was just spacious enough to practise his forms, despite having no weapon to practise with. The guards had taken those, and his golden hand from him as well. Wisely, the guards had not provided the practice sword he had requested. Not that he planned on fighting his way out.

Even Jaime Lannister could understand that only one woman could get him out of this cell. A slight grin took his face. _Stark girls are too smart to make the same mistake twice._ At least two weeks had passed, and it was long past clear that the Lady of Winterfell had refused to even see him. Jaime was hardly surprised, and part of him was almost relieved. 

Almost.

As unnerved as Jaime had felt about idea of facing Lady Sansa, after all the pain he had brought and helped bring to her family, it was nothing compared to what he felt now.

First he heard the door open, then the rhythmic, heavy footsteps of three soldiers, and finally the soft tapping of lighter boots moving alongside them. Jaime did not rise, though his heart began to pound in his chest. The heavy footsteps stopped, just out of sight.

The Dragon Queen walked slowly in front of his cell and hesitated before turning. From the shadows cast by the flickering candles, her face emerged, looking carved from stone but for the fire in her eyes. 

_Aerys' eyes,_ Jaime thought with great unease.

Overall, her face bore more resemblance to her mother. Jamie tried often not to think of the gentle Queen Rhaella Targaryen. To remember Queen Rhaella was to remember all the times that he had heard her brutally raped by the Mad King. Under oath, a young Ser Jaime, of only sixteen years then, had been honor-bound to stand outside the door and... listen. The memories still made him queasy.

_Young Ser Jaime had hoped that they had simply been fighting, but he could no longer delude himself as to what was happening on the other side of King Aerys' door._ Queen Rhaella doesn't deserve this _, Jaime thought again._ No one does _..._

_Unable to bear another moment of it, Ser Jaime thrust his hand out to the door handle. He would make the screaming stop. He_ must _make it stop. Ser Jonothor Darry, standing just the other side of the door, snatched his hand before Jaime could touch the handle._

_"But... We're sworn to protect her as well!" Ser Jaime exclaimed._

_"We are... but not from_ him _," Ser Jonothor replied, his hand on his sword. Slowly, Jaime pulled his hand back. Desperately trying to drown out the sounds of the screaming, he thought of Cersei._

Queen Rhaella had survived the Mad King, but died soon after on Dragonstone, giving birth to a baby girl. To the woman who stood before him now. To the Mad King's daughter.

"This is a much finer cell than the one I'd have given you," the Dragon Queen intoned softly.

Jamie stood on steady legs. The resemblance to her mother twisted a knife in his gut, but he made himself move towards her.

_Rhaella's face and Aerys' eyes, come back to haunt me,_ Jaime thought. _But I wonder who she really takes after?_

"Now... You wouldn't have given me a cell at all. Would you, _Dragon Queen_?" Jaime replied in his most insolent voice as he moved towards the bars.

"Probably not," she replied coolly, without a spark of anger on her face. The anger crept in slowly as she went on. "I'd have burnt you alive... like my brother and I always dreamt of doing to the man who _murdered_ our father and sent us into exile."

There it was.

"The war was _over,_ " Jaime snapped. "I knew it. Your _lunatic_ father knew it too, so yes. Imurdered him! _Before_ Aerys could light the Wildfire caches he had hidden beneath the city... I can _honestly_ say I waited as long as I could, but _someone_ had to kill the Mad King before he burnt the whole city down! Before the fools who still remained loyal to him murdered _thousands_ of innocents on their King's royal command! I only wish I had murdered him sooner, and saved your mother some pain," Jamie only realized he had been shouting when heavy quiet fell again.

For what felt like an eternity, the Mad King's daughter stared at him.Finally her eyes dropped for no longer than a heartbeat. 

"You're right," she said quietly, meeting his eyes again. "' _Burn them all_ ,' those were my father's last words, according to Ser Barristan... Is that true?"

The step back Jaime took was involuntary, as was tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. He had not expected this reaction at all. Honestly, he had expected her to smugly, or perhaps gleefully sentence him to death by now. Especially since the last time the Dragon Queen saw Jaime, he had been riding at her as fast as he could... with a spear aimed at her heart. 

Narrowing his eyes, Jaime made no effort to conceal his respect. "That man is as honest as he is old, he would not lie... I didn't know Barristan was with you." 

" _Ser Barristan_ is not with _anyone_ anymore. He died across the Narrow Sea, fighting the slavers of Meereen. Ser Barristan swore himself to me. He fought for me. _Died_ , for me. He _begged_ my forgiveness, for failing my family."

Jaime tried to not seem too thoughtful in his pause, but he could not stop himself from the congratulatory smile. "Died fighting the slavers of Meereen... A hero's death if there ever was one. For a Knight his age, that's about the only thing left to live for. Ser Barristan would have had no regrets." _Barristan the Bold_ , Jaime thought fondly. _If only I could ever have such a noble death._

The Dragon Queen only stared at him. Shaking his head, Jaime held his smile and continued with all his usual scorn.

"I'll not beg for your forgiveness... Of all people, how could you _ever_ forgive _me_? The Gods themselves could not forgive me for the things I've done. I would ask, however, for your Queenly permission to be free of this cell, so that I can fight for the living as I _promised_ to."

"Why should I?" She hissed. "How am I to trust you not to slip a knife into my heart, to bring my head back to Cersei as a prize?" Her voice was like ice, her eyes like fire.

It took Jamie several seconds to realize she was actually asking. _What would Tyrion say..._

The search for the words to prove Ser Jaime Lannister was worthy of another chance at honor came up empty. There had been so many chances before now to do the right thing... but each time he chose what was right for Cersei, no matter who suffered for it. He tried to find the words to explain he had abandoned Cersei to her own self-destruction, but he failed.

Truthfully, all he really wanted outside this cell was an honorable death in the Long Night, to free him of having to make an impossible decision; the decision as to whether or not he returned to Cersei after the Great War was won.

"Why haven't you killed me already?" Jaime asked instead after the thoughtful pause.

"Someone has vouched for you... Someone I am told is honorable, who seems to trust you. Be it on her head," the Queen finished indifferently.

"You must mean Brienne," Jamie sighed, unable to keep the warmth from marring his mocking tone. "She has more honor in her than anyone. She's the reason I'm here," the words had come from him without call, and in that moment Jaime realized that he had not _always_ done the dishonorable thing. More than once, he had dared Cersei's wrath to do right by _Brienne_ , and would do so again, given the opportunity.

With his left hand, Jaime gripped the bars of the cell and moved his face as close to hers as he could. She eyed him suspiciously, just as everyone else eyed the Kingslayer.

"I can't convince you to trust me. Someone like you probably shouldn't trust anyone, let alone a man like me. The only reason there's any good in me at all is because of Brienne. Every time I tried to fail her, she beat honor and decency into me. Brienne has always... she always expected me to do the right thing... I _can't_ let her down, _again_."

The Dragon Queen glared at him with Wildfire in her eyes for a long time, before she finally answered.

"Confess your crimes," she growled. "All of them."


	12. The Queen's Feast (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sansa continues to be mistrustful of the Dragon Queen and her soldiers. Jon confronts Sansa about her behavior during the summit. Daenerys makes a public display of the Kingslayer. Jaime makes a request._

The great hall of Winterfell was more crowded than it had ever been. Northmen, Dothraki, and Unsullied commanders all cramming around separate tables under the same hall. The foreigners moved freely between tables, crowding the aisles and talking boisterously in their strange tongues. The Northmen glared and mumbled quietly among themselves, and stuck rigidly to their seats.

Sansa scowled as her servants set the tables of Winterfell under the command of the Dragon Queen, who had ordered as many tables as could fit in the hall be brought in. Not even the food being served was of the North; the foreigners had brought it themselves. They had claimed it, after the incineration and slaughter of hundreds of men in the Reach.

More often than not, Sansa fixed her glare on the Dothraki. They were easy to hate for their loudness, the ugly guttural language they shouted at one another, the strange color of their skin. The darkness of their skin and hair... she wondered how they ever managed to tell one another apart. The Unullied, at least, were quieter than the Dothraki, but she hated them too.

And yet as much as she loathed them, she needed them. The North's survival relied on them. Sansa hated that simple fact most of all, that _her_ life must hinge on the forces of the woman who came to conquer all of Westeros with Fire and Blood.

_And Jon let them in the front gate..._

The Lady of Winterfell sat just to the right of the center at the head table, the same table the Starks had hosted their feasts from for hundreds of years. The rest of the seats were empty, except for Tyrion in the farthest seat to the left. 

Arya had not shown her face－ at least, not her _true_ face－ since their last conversation about the Dragon Queen, weeks ago. After the summit, Jon had disappeared with his new Queen, and she assumed he was either still with _her_ , or wherever his _favorite_ sister was. Bran had returned to his room immediately after giving his news to the Dragon Queen, who, herself, had not made an appearance yet either. Despite the deliberate slight, Sansa was grateful for every second she could get without the woman looking at her like cat watching a mouse.

Brienne stood behind her, guarding her back as she had sworn to do. It was Sansa's only peace of mind, knowing that her oath would go unbroken. It hardly mattered that Brienne had barely said a word to her, since she had refused to see Jaime Lannister. An oath was an oath, and Brienne would keep it.

A side door swung open, and Jon entered the feast hall. Her half-brother made his way to the head table, and all the foreigners he passed nodded their respect. The Northmen glared over their shoulders and bent their heads closer together, and Sansa could not help but smile slightly to see it. Jon took the center seat, to her left.

"We need to talk," Jon said gruffly. Sansa simply looked at him and waited for him to make his point. "About the summit... You shouldn't antagonize her, Sansa. The North is one of the Seven Kingdoms and like it or not, Daenerys is-"

"Your new Queen, yes. You've mentioned," Sansa finished quickly. Jon sighed and looked around in frustration. _He always did wear his emotions on his sleeve._

"She's _your_ Queen too, Sansa," Jon replied, in the irritatingly stern voice that their father had always used when he thought he was right.

While she stared at him, a sudden quiet fell upon the feast hall. The hush started somewhere in the foyer, and spread rapidly to the front of the feast hall. From the standing-open doors at the far end, The Dragon Queen, with Ser Jorah to her right, emerged. The Conqueror led Jamie Lannister by his chains, silently, to the front of the room.

Tyrion stood up when they came into view, his chair scraping loudly in the quiet, but he remained at his place. 

After that, the only sounds in the hall were their footsteps and the quiet clinking of the chains. The Dragon Queen stopped her grim parade directly in front of the head table, with Jorah standing just behind her to the left, and Jaime Lannister on her right.

The three of them stood _directly_ in front of her. Unseen by all, Sansa's mouth dropped open. Was there no end to the Dragon Queen slighting her authority?

"This man... is Ser Jamie Lannister," the Dragon Queen proclaimed to the quiet feast hall, totally unaware of Sansa's rage, or of _anything_ besides her own theatrics. At that moment, Sansa noticed the pommel of the sword hanging upon Ser Jorah's belt. Not just any sword.

The pommel and markings on it were unmistakable, to someone who bothered to know about such things. _Heartsbane_ , the Valyrian sword belonging to the Tarlys of Horn Hill. Sansa narrowed her eyes at the blade. The Dragon Queen went on.

"Ser Jaime is known throughout Westeros as the Kingslayer, for murdering my father, King Aerys Targaryen. He served in my father's Kingsguard, until he _broke_ his oath to protect his King, and put a sword through his back. Ser Jaime told me himself that he believes _regicide_ is the _least_ of his crimes."

Sansa wondered if she would feed him to her dragons, burn him alive, or slaughter him right here in the hall during the feast. _After she's done hearing herself talk, of course_ , Sansa thought with another roll of her eyes. 

Daenerys paused a long time, with the words that must be said stuck in her throat. _The truth is what it is_ , she reminded herself sternly.

"For all Ser Jaime's faults... _Someone_ had to kill the Mad King before he burned King's Landing down to its foundation stones." The surprised murmuring that came from the Northmen ceased when she raised her voice over them.

"Aerys Targaryen was my father... yet he was also everything of unjust, and unworthy rule that for _years_ , I have fought to overthrow. King Aerys' atrocities were some of the worst crimes ever committed in the history of the Seven Kingdoms... and Ser Jaime was _right_ to end his tyranny." The surprised murmuring grew louder among the Northerners. Daenerys raised her voice again, and they soon quieted.

"And yet, Ser Jaime has confessed to other crimes. Terrible crimes for which he _himself_ says that he cannot be forgiven, not even by the Gods themselves. For those crimes... there must be atonement."

The silence hung heavy over the crowd, and she let it hang. Then, she raised her right hand and Ser Jorah took a single step up to her side.

"This is Ser Jorah Mormont. Ser Jorah exiled himself from Westeros as a young man for selling men into slavery. He fled the death sentence of Eddard Stark, the late Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. It was a sentence I would agree Ser Jorah deserved, if I had not met him years later. Ser Jorah swore himself to me, confessed to his crimes, and as my sword, freed _thousands_ of slaves across the Narrow Sea."

The Unsullied rapped their cups in tandem on the tables three times, then fell silent as their Queen raised a hand.

"Ser Jorah proves that past crimes cannot discount future glories, and that there may be honor to be found in even the worst men, _if_ they can learn to follow a better example..." Taking a deep breath, she spoke firmly and clearly. 

"Brienne of Tarth has vouched for Ser Jamie. As the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms I have pardoned him for all his former crimes."

The Northerners erupted, but Daenerys did not pause.

"As _atonement_ , Jamie Lannister will be henceforth stripped of all his lands, titles, inheritance, and the Lannister name." She turned her commanding gaze from the room to Jaime and moved to speak, but stopped.

Jaime had the wide, bright eyes of a man with an idea. 

Truthfully Jaime did not altogether listen to the Queen's speech about crimes, and honor, and glory. It was difficult to focus on her speech when all he could think of was how badly he had to piss. He wished he could just kneel and get on with it. _A bath_ , he decided, that was the first thing he would do with his freedom. 

Finally, Jaime tuned in when a word jumped out of her long-winded speech. _Stripped_. Stripped of his lands, titles, inheritance. Stripped of his Knighthood... Casterly Rock and the rest of the inheritance he had long since given up, but the Knighthood... Well, he had never done much good with his Knighthood anyways, he supposed.

Jaime's eyes popped open, and he cursed himself a fool for not thinking of it before now. _One last honorable deed as a Knight_... He could have requested it below, in the dungeons. The Dragon Queen obviously had the flare for drama and spectacle that most rulers had, and certainly she would have agreed. It was an opportunity he would rue forever if he missed it.

"... of all lands, titles, inheritance, and the Lannister name," she declared before turning to look at him, poised to continue.

Jaime interrupted the Queen.

"Your Grace... Please, I beg you to allow me one last act as a Knight!" The thick silence seemed all the more tense with her eyes blazing at him.

"To what purpose?" The Queen asked, her voice hard as rock.

Jaime leaned in slightly and murmured his request. When he pulled back, she held his eyes for a moment before nodding once.

"Brienne of Tarth, step forward."

Almost forgetting his chains, they clinked together loudly as Jaime turned almost entirely around to grin at Brienne. She looked about as uncomfortable as he had expected her to.

Brienne detested spectacle as much as the Dragon Queen seemed to revel in it. She was in her armor, of course. A dark steel cuirass worn over a studded jerkin, and a black leather sword belt. Taking her first slow step forward, Brienne had the look of someone about to be sick: tight eyes, drawn lips, and a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead. Usually she moved with the smooth grace of a skilled fighter, but as Brienne made her way around the head table, her walk was stiff and uncomfortable to watch.

After what seemed like an age, Brienne finally came to stand next to Jaime.

"Your Grace," Brienne greeted, her voice soft and nervous. Daenerys nodded neutrally, then turned to Jaime. _Well?_ The Queen's eyes asked him.

"May I borrow your sword?" Jaime leaned towards Brienne and asked quietly through a grin. Brienne removed _Oathkeeper_ and handed it over to him, looking even paler than before. Jaime rested the sword tip on the ground, between his feet.

"Kneel, Briene of Tarth."

The smile felt new on his face, like the first smile Jaime had ever meant honestly. As Brienne lowered herself, her chin lifted up, and the tension on her face gave way to wide-eyed wonder. By the time her knee hit the floor, her eyes were shining as they gazed up at him.

As Jaime spoke, he moved _Oathkeeper_ back and forth between her shoulders.

"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave... In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just... In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent... Arise, _Ser Brienne_ , a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms." 

Ser Brienne rose, still wondering if it were a dream. There had been dreams just like this, more than one, but usually it was just the two of them. As Jaime handed _Oathkeeper_ back to her, he gave Brienne a smile that set her hands to trembling as she accepted the sword. 

A nervous grin pulled at her lips; her eyes were locked to Jaime's, blind to everyone else in the quiet room, until a thunderous cheer erupted from Podrick Payne.

"YES!" Podrick yelled, stepping up onto the bench and clapping with his hands above his head, only pausing to whistle, so loudly that the men closest to him leaned away with pained expressions on their faces. Brienne turned to face him, mouth hanging open with surprise. 

The Hound, standing by himself in the farthest corner of the room, picked up the clap soon after Podrick began, though he did not whistle or cheer.

Tyrion Lannister joined in, and before long nearly everyone in the hall was cheering or clapping. Brienne gazed in wonder around the room, her smile growing wider until her cheeks began to ache. Tears came unbidden to her eyes, and she decided with certainty that this was no dream.

In her dreams, no one would cheer for her like this.

The clapping went on for a while, and when it began to quiet again, the Dragon Queen, smiling, raised her hand, and silence returned to the room. Pod was the last to stop clapping, and finally, he sat himself back down. 

When it was quiet, The Queen turned her smile on Jaime. "Free men make their own choices," the Queen began warmly.

"Traitors," the Queen added, her voice soft as silk, "will _burn_."

The Dragon Queen held Jamie's eyes, and without hesitation the man bowed his head and knelt before her. Regaining a slight smile, the Queen turned her attention to Brienne.

"Congratulations, Ser Brienne," the Queen began, sounding sincere. "Remember that I gave you a chance to reconsider. Your choice is made, and your fate now rests on _his_ sincerity. Truly, I hope he will not fail you."

"...Thank you, Your Grace," Brienne replied cautiously.

When the Queen looked away, Ser Brienne turned and moved back to her place behind Lady Sansa. It took much less time to return than to it than it had to come forward. 

Sansa pulled her lips back at Ser Brienne, who smiled proudly as she passed by. Having Brienne at her back no longer felt the same. Sansa wished she had thought to have the woman knighted before now. _Wishes are for little girls with stupid dreams,_ she remembered.Still, it was better than having no one behind her at all...

 _What's the worst reason the Dragon Queen could have for Knighting Brienne of Tarth_?

As Brienne returned to her place, at her back, Sansa could not help stiffening. The Dragon Queen returned her attention to the man still kneeling beneath her.

"Rise."

Jaime stood obediently, while the Dragon Queen produced a key from the folds of her dark gown and unlocked his chains. Sansa meant to have a stern word with the Keymaster of the dungeons for allowing the _Conqueror_ to release a prisoner of _Winterfell_.

The clink of the chains hitting the floor was uncomfortably loud in the quiet hall.

The man who had once been Ser Jamie of House Lannister met the Queen's eye with a strange look on his face. It was gone before Sansa could puzzle it out.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Jaime said, before he pivoted and fixed Tyrion with a cocksure grin. The Dragon Queen merely glanced past him and moved to take her place at the head table, with Jorah following at her heels. Jon stood, and offered up the center seat, then re-seated himself to the Dragon Queen's left. 

The silence in the hall lifted like a fog in the sun as the feast resumed.

Sansa could not help but stare at her, sitting directly next to her. A foreign queen in the center seat of Winterfell. The insultingly Northern-style braid in her unnatural hair vanished, when the Dragon Queen turned to Sansa with cold, commanding eyes. Sansa held her gaze fearlessly. The corner of the Dragon Queen's mouth turned down a bit before she broke the gaze, turned to the left, and began speaking in a low voice with Jon.

Unsurprisingly, Tyrion had already made his way down to see his brother. 

Tyrion's breath had been stuck in his throat from the moment his Queen had entered holding his brother's chain, and his life, in her hands. He had not even known Jamie was in Winterfell; Varys missed more than usual of late... he was always saying that his Northern network was thin, at best.

 _So, Lady Sansa is keeping secrets, after all._ Tyrion resolved to worry about that later.

When Jaime's chains fell to the floor, Tyrion hurried down to him, bowing deeply to his Queen as she passed him by. Daenerys ignored him completely, and took her place at the head table next to Jon Snow. Ser Jorah stood behind them, sporting a remarkable new sword and an extremely proud smirk.

"She _freed_ you?" Tyrion asked over the din that had risen back into the room.

"Be it on her head," Jamie quoted with a nod at Ser Brienne. "She vouched for me..."

Tyrion had never heard such awe in his brother's voice. Not about anyone. Not even Cersei. "Then she's as much as fool as you are... It's good to see you," Tyrion said.

"You too," Jaime smirked down at him. "I need a bath, and you best return to the Queen before she assumes we're plotting to take her head back to Cersei for a family reunion."

"You're right, on both counts," Tyrion called over his shoulder, already walking back towards the head table. He took his seat on the far left and ate his meal in silence, enjoying the pleasant din of the feast hall. 

Tyrion was in the best mood he had been in since the Greyjoy attack, when the shouting started.


	13. The Queen's Feast (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _News comes from the Wall. Jon sees an old friend. Daenerys speaks privately with Sansa. A girl asks the Dragon Queen a question._

**The Queen's Feast (II)**

Jon stood as soon as he heard the shouting, and moved slowly around to stand in front of the head table. His eyes were fixed on the entrance to the feast hall. 

The shouting came again, audible this time. "Do I fucking look like I'm hungry? MOVE! Where is Jon?! _JON_!"

Jon could not ask his name aloud. Not until he was sure. 

" _JOOOON?!_ " The man barreled through the crowd of people milling near the entrance. "Where the fuck is Jon?!"

"Tormund!" The wildling was covered in frosted blood, head to toe. The greys of his usual garb could hardly be seen under the reddish black, crusted here and there with ice. Tormunds face was a horror show of red, frozen in chunks on his skin and matting in his beard. 

" _JON_! OH thank every _fucking_ God there ever _was_! You're _back_!" Tormund boomed at the top of his lungs as he pushed through the hall towards Jon. The wildling laughed like a madman, his eyes fixed ahead, heedlessly throwing aside anyone in his path.

When Tormund reached him, the hug knocked the wind from Jon's lungs. Tormund wrapped a hand behind his head, and kissed him roughly. Jon could taste the blood before he pulled away. 

"I thought you were dead!" Jon exclaimed after Tormund released him, inciting a hard slap on both shoulders and a wild, rolling laugh from the enormous man. 

"I _should be_! When we saw that dragon wight I knew we were _fucked_ , so I ran here from the Wall to warn you!" Tormund began to laugh again, but the laugh cut off as every Northman in the room cried out in outrage. Jon grimaced.

The Wall had never been abandoned, not once in the eight millenia that it had stood as a shield to guard the realms of men from the army of the dead. Jon had given the order to Tormund and the rest of the Free Folk to hold the Wall, alongside what had remained of the Night's Watch.

Tormund turned slowly, with narrowed eyes, to face the room. The angry shouting submitted quickly to nervous silence, as each Northman refused to be the last one still yelling at the enormous man. From the look on Tormund's face, he was looking to add fresh smears of red to the gruesome array painted all over him.

"Oh, I'm _sorry,_ " Tormund began, "does my living to fight another day _offend_ you... _Lord Ser Knight_?!" Tormund shouted into the face of the closest Northman to him－ a Glover by his armor－ spewing spittle and taking a jerking step towards the man, seated at the closest table. "The Free Folk won't stay to die when they can pick up the fight somewhere they stand a _fucking chance!_ " Tormund shoved a blood-crusted finger into the Northman's pale, drawn face. "I don't see _you_ running to the Wall!"

The Northman cowered. A stunned silence hung in the air for a moment, while Tormund leered over him, the mask of thawing blood hovering not five inches from his face. 

" _RUN_!" Tormund roared, and the Northman obliged, knocking through the crowd and sprinting out of the feast hall. The wildling's body shook with his crazed laughter.

" _Tormund_!" Jon shouted authoritatively. Tormund turned to face him and quieted. "How long do we have?"

"The _fuckers_ are walking slower than ever," Tormund spat. "Three days, at least."

"Three days," Jon repeated firmly, not sure if that was more or less time than he had thought. He turned to Daenerys, and was surprised to see her watching Tormund with amusement glinting at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

Following Jon's look, Tormund found her eye on him. The wildling's brow furrowed.

"Tormund Giantsbane," Daenerys greeted the wildling fondly, with a respectful nod. Tormund glanced at Jon, and receiving a tiny nod from Jon in return, looked back at the Queen and nodded sharply, shifting his weight a bit.

"Dragon Queen," Tormund greeted in a gruff attempt at formality. 

The corners of Daenerys' mouth twitch again in amusement, and Jon loved her more for it. With a warm smile, she spread her arms wide in a welcoming gesture. The din returned to the room, and Jon pulled Tormund aside, but not before the wildling had grabbed the nearest horn of ale, drinking it down in a few ravenous gulps.

"Did anyone else make it?" Jon asked.

"A hundred of the Free Folk strong enough to run the distance followed me... Some Northfolk along the way who didn't go South when your Lady Sister first told them."

"...And the Night's Watch?" Jon asked with a timid hope for Ed.

Tormund shook his head. "They stayed to fight. Gave the rest of us time to escape so we could warn you. If it weren't for them..." Tormund gestured to his blood-soaked leathers.

Jon nodded sadly, vowing to always remember Ed with brown eyes instead of blue. A good man, and a loyal friend... _Ed always did the right thing. To his last._

Jon clapped Tormund on the shoulder and kept his hand there.

"I'm glad you're alive," Jon intoned. Tormund spread his arms wide, let loose another wild laugh, and grabbed two drinks out of two Northmen's hands before slamming himself down at the table, between them.

Qhono and one of his warriors gestured approvingly at Tormund, and pushed their way through to stand behind him while Jon returned to his place at the head table, to the left of his Queen. Glancing over, Jon noticed that for all the calm Daenerys' face bore, her hands were clutched white-knuckled in her lap. Jon frowned, and fought back the urge to comfort her with a touch. 

The room was growing louder by the moment, now that Qhono had started a drinking contest with Tormund. Others, even a few Northmen, were joining in one by one, shouting about how they will not be out-drunk by foreigners in their own hall. Jon realized, appreciatively, that it was the first time he had seen the Northmen engaging the Queen's men.

"Lady Sansa may I speak with you alone?" Daenerys said suddenly, already rising. It was an order, only phrased as a question to be polite. Ser Jorah moved to follow her, but Daenerys raised a hand, and he stayed where he was. Sansa rose silently, and followed the Queen out of the feast hall, out to a covered porch Jon knew to be just outside that door.

When Daenerys heard Sansa shut the door, the Queen was already standing at the edge of the porch with her arms spread out, hands resting on the railing. Appreciating the silence, Daenerys beheld the silver glow of the moonlight, drenching the snowy foreground. It was an unusually clear night, calm and serene compared to the constant storms they had faced on the journey North. The full, heavy moon shone bright enough to obscure the stars, and illuminated the snow to a wondrous, glowing blue. 

Daenerys had never known such a true, and peaceful quiet. 

The occasional, distant cries of her children offered the only sound in the stillness. The two dragons circled Winterfell a ways off, as they had since her address. The Mother of Dragons yearned to hear the missing third voice, enough to ache as she listened to Drogon and Rhaegal call to each other in the quiet, silver night. 

The Lady of Winterfell stood behind her, refusing to speak first, so Daenerys began. Even she was surprised to hear such vulnerability in her voice. "I know what my father was. I know the _Mad King_ earned his name," she began. Daenerys turned to face Sansa. "But I know who I am as well...What do you think of me, Lady Sansa? Truly?"

"You are the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms," Sansa replied neutrally. Daenerys took a small step towards her. The blue of Sansa's eyes were no warmer than they had been when they had arrived.

"I'm more than that," Daenerys said softly. "I have to be. The people in this world need more than a Queen. They need a protector, a servant; they need _freedom_. Or the Cersei Lannisters of the world will always hold them in chains for their own benefit."

Sansa only gave her a polite nod, and Daenerys kept on. "I wish... that you could trust me, or at least I wish you would _understand_ that I am not your enemy. We share our enemies, do we not?"

"Yes, Your Grace. The Whitewalkers are enemy to all who live. As is Cersei Lannister." Sansa replied in the same lifeless voice.

Daenerys took a slight step forward, her heart racing. _Will she not even try to trust me?_ What would Jon do, she wondered, if Sansa forced him to choose between them? 

_It will not come to that,_ Daenerys promised herself.

"We are not so different, Lady Sansa. We both know what it means to be overlooked for rule, simply because we are not men. You've seen all the same brutalities of war that I have. I was raised in savage lands..." Daenerys said sadly. "Brutality is all I've ever known. The more used to it I became, the less I cared for it... And the _more_ I became willing to do, so that I could make sure it would not happen to someone else." 

The Lady of Winterfell's expression looked as if carved of stone. Unwilling to respond, Sansa only blinked.

"Jon told me what happened to you, what Ramsey did." Daenerys had not intended to go this far, but she could not stop. It was as desperate a feeling as any Daenerys could remember, the desire to bridge this chasm that she could not understand, between herself and Sansa.

"I'm so sorry," Daenerys whispered, taking a small step and reaching a hand forward.

The Lady of Winterfell jerked away suddenly. Wide-eyed, Sansa stared as if Daenerys had tried to strike her. Within a heartbeat, her face had returned to a neutral composure, but there was a tremor that lingered in her voice.

"Forgive me Your Grace, but the army of the dead marches to Winterfell as we speak. I must see to the preparations."

Daenerys stared with wide eyes as Sansa curtsied and backed away two slow steps before turning for the door. The vulnerability that Daenerys felt had snapped. It recoiled into her like a chain against too much weight.

"Remember what I said, Lady Stark," the Dragon Queen called after her, stopping Sansa as she opened the door. "Free women make their own choices."

Sansa held her eye. "Yes, Your Grace. And traitors will burn," she replied coolly before pulling the door open and shut behind her.

Daenerys sighed. Her shoulders slumped, and she squeezed her eyes and shook her head slightly. When her eyes opened she had raised them up to the sky, and she listened to her dragons call to each other in the winter-silent, moonlit night for a few moments. The Queen turned and started back for the feast with her eyes downcast, only to freeze mid-step.

The shadow of a man with a blade stretched out on the porch beneath her.

"Lady Sansa won't ever trust _you._ None of them will. _Girl_ ," a new voice spat from the shadows. The Westerosi man stepped out from behind one of the large wooden posts supporting the roof of the covered porch. An older man, with lines in his face, and dark, loveless eyes; he wore strange, dark armor beneath his ashen grey cloak.

The small blade he held, pointed levelly at the Queen, glinted in the moonlight.

"And why is that?" the Dragon Queen asked calmly. There was no fear in her voice, and none upon her face, but the fearlessness itself was a well-practiced lie.

"Because we don't know you," Arya replied, peeling the man's face off to reveal her own. In her other hand, the knife was still pointed at the Queen. Daenerys took a step back, her eyes wide with honest fear. "But my brother knows you. And Sam... So let me ask you something, _Dragon Queen_." Arya took a step forward, but the Queen had resumed her fearless ruse, and refused to step away. "After the Great War is won, what then?"

"Rest," the Queen answered wearily. Her voice firmed again. "For a short time. Then, I will take the Iron Throne, unite the Seven Kingdoms, and begin building a new world. One where those who would live in peace will do so without fear."

"How?" Arya asked. The Queen's eyes sparked angrily.

"However is necessary. I _will_ take back what was stolen from me, and I _will_ bring Cersei Lannister to justice with _Fire_ and _Blood_ ," the Dragon Queen vowed. _"_ But I will _not_ punish innocents for the crimes of others. I will not _burn them all_... I know who I am," Daenerys finished quietly, turning away. 

The small knife the Northern man had carried buried into the post halfway between Arya and the Dragon Queen. The Queen spun around, but by then Arya had already melted into the shadows.

Unseen, she watched the Queen gaze about the small courtyard, frightened. After a few moments, the fear faded. Daenerys smiled slightly－ _an honest smile_ － then returned through the door to rejoin the feast.

Arya would return as well, wearing a different face that she had claimed from a different man. Like her other faces, the man it once belonged to had done terrible things to innocent people. Like the others, he had assumed nobody was watching that cared to, or had the strength to intervene.

A short life she had lived yet, but Arya had known no shortage of men such as these, and so a girl had many faces to choose from. 


	14. A Red Dawn (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sam ponders the future, then says goodbye to Jon. Tyrion is resentful of his situation.The former High Priestess of the Dosh Khaleen gives Tyrion a piece of advice._   
> 

**A Red Dawn (I)**

The dawn that followed the Queen's feast began with a hesitant, watery pink creeping up and over the horizon, staining the heavy clouds that hung low over Winterfell. The rosy tint on the frosted window signaled it: the end of the longest night of Sam's life.

No sleep had come to Sam after the feast. The empty plates that he had sneaked from the feast hall－ he preferred to eat in quiet, with Gilly and Little Sam－ were stacked neatly by the door. When the muffled clamor of the feast had finally faded, the silence that followed seemed somehow louder, and Sam could not help but lay there and listen to it, his thoughts racing around in circles.

Eventually he rose, yielding to the sleepless night, and took the cushioned seat by Little Sam's cradle. In a tense, nervous way, Sam had been glad for the way the minutes had crawled into long hours. It could well be one of his last chances to sit beside Little Sam, asleep in his bassinet, one of his last chances to simply watch the boy sleep through the night.

 _Don't think like that,_ Sam reminded himself. Little Sam stirred a bit in sleep, and Sam gently replaced the corner of blanket his boy had pushed off. It had been difficult, recently, to keep thoughts hopeful, despite that－ technically－ Sam Tarly had more to hope for on this morning he ever had before.

In less than an hour, Sam would start for home. Not the Wall... not the Citadel... _Home_ , to Horn Hill, as _the Lord of Horn Hill_. It still seemed as impossible a dream as ever. Last night, Gilly had said that it would not seem real until he arrived, just like how the land South of the Wall had not seemed real to her until she had seen it for herself. Sam knew she was right. Gilly always seemed to be right, these days.

Turning his gaze from Little Sam to his woman, Sam smiled to see her peacefully sleeping on the bed that had been so unforgiving to him last night. On her beside table was a large book, _An History of Aegon the Conqueror and His Conquest of Westeros_. Since Sam had taught her to read, she consumed books as quickly as an open flame. When Sam had told Gilly that Jon was coming home with the Dragon Queen, Gilly had gathered every book she could find on the Targaryens and their history in Westeros. Where now there was only one book upon the bedside table, there had been eight or nine stacked up when Sam had left to meet Jon and Daenerys at White Harbor.

 _I could marry her,_ Sam realized with a start－ and with the same thought－ resolved to ask her for her hand as soon as they arrived... _home_. Sam laughed quietly, imagining his mother and Talla's inevitable squeals of joy to hear of their betrothal.

Sam sat quietly and smiled at Gilly for a long time, thinking very fond thoughts of her both in and _out_ of her wedding gown... but eventually the time came to take the first step, through the first door on the journey home. Quietly as he could, Sam stood up. Little Sam, ever the light sleeper, sensed the motion and stirred, and Gilly stirred with him. Sam reached into the cradle and shushed Little Sam gently, before his fussing could turn to a proper cry.

"Are we leavin'?" Gilly mumbled, half-awake as she rolled over.

"Soon," Sam crooned, tickling a finger on Little Sam's chest before glancing back at Gilly. "I've a few things to do first. Goodbyes, and such..." Sam said it as casually as he could, but the look on her face told Sam that she was not fooled.

It made him even more reluctant to take that first step towards home, and towards what could be his very last goodbye to his best friend. _If they lose the Great War_... Sam stopped the thought cold. Life _had_ to win, or else what was the point of everything they had been through? Not ten minutes ago, Sam had been picturing Jon, standing by his side at his wedding... _A great story deserves a happy ending_ , Sam thought, but tears sprang to his eyes nonetheless. In most of the tales Sam had read, the hero died so that the others could live happily ever after. _Not this story,_ Sam prayed.

Little Sam, well-awake now, was chewing on his fist and grinning up as he cooed. " _Dada_..." Sam smiled back at the boy who had his name, who would one day have Horn Hill, if the Gods were kind. Gilly kicked the furs off and padded across the room to wrap her arms around him from the back. Sam reached one hand up to hold her hand, over his chest. For a few sweet, quiet moments, Gilly held Sam and watched while he tickled their son.

"I'll meet you at the wagons?" Gilly asked in a decidedly normal voice. Sam nodded rapidly and turned to wrap his arms around her. There was a lump in his throat that grew larger, and stonier, every time Sam thought about saying goodbye to Jon. _If Jon dies in the Great War_... Sam could not finish the thought. If Jon lived, he would open the letter Sam had written... and Jon would live to learn the truth. Knowing the man as well as he did, Sam figured it unlikely that _Aegon Targaryen_ would find the truth to be a pleasant one.

In the last hour, the thick frosted glass window above the door turned from black to somber gray. Now, a balmy pink light shone through, as the first corner of the sun reached over the horizon. If Sam delayed another moment, he would not leave at all. Sam kissed Gilly's forehead and made for the door. Pushing the door into the wind, it opened to the covered walk, five paces above the courtyard of Winterfell.

Despite the young dawn, the courtyard below was an absolute flurry. Unsullied, Dothraki, Northern folk, even a few Wildlings bustled about together in the strangest crowd Sam thought had ever been gathered at Winterfell. Nearly every man and woman－ soldiers all to his mind, if they had remained to fight－ carried something in their arms: wagon hitches, bundles of wood, bales of straw, barrels, shovels and mattocks. Each solider brought their burden to a pack animal leading a cart, which when full, joined the line of carts waiting to pull through any one of the main gates of Winterfell.

Taking a breath, Sam coughed at the cold that rushed into his lungs. No snow fell from the clouds above, but the air felt like ice in his throat. A strong, steady wind blew from the North. The heavy overcast, reddened ahead of him and turning to pale silver above, grew darker and bleaker as Sam turned his gaze into the wind.

Far off to the North loomed a small patch of clouds, black as ink, and so small that Sam could raise his hand and it cover it from sight. _For now..._

Dread gripped his stomach in a cold hand at the glimpse of the far-away storm. There was no escape from knowing that darkness would walk South and－ before the third sunset－ would settle over Winterfell. Death would come with the darkened sky.

The longer Sam spent staring at the distant shadow, the less aware he was of the courtyard beneath him. The voices and commotion of the soldiers laboring below were consumed by an unnatural silence, punctuated only by the sound of his own, quickening heartbeat, and the soft whistling of the wind. The blighted clouds to the North seemed to stare back at him, to whisper fell thoughts into his head. _Coward,_ it taunted. _Stay and fight..._ With every blink, Sam imagined he could see it growing larger, drawing closer...darker...

When Jon clapped a hand to his shoulder, Sam jumped and tore his gaze free of the faraway storm. Jon was watching the crowd milling below, a half grin on his face; the worry lines on it were as plain as the gratified look in his eyes.

"And we thought it would be impossible to get the _Wildlings_ into Winterfell," Jon said, altogether unaware of the terror that had just gripped Sam.

It was just like the bloody hero, to show up without warning and free him of his torment. Sam chuckled. "Apparently the word impossible has no real meaning anymore," he said, earning a sigh instead of a laugh.

"I hope you're right about that," Jon said seriously, turning his half-hopeful look from the soldiers below.

"You'll win," Sam promised, nodding eagerly. "I know you will."

"We have a chance, at least," Jon allowed sadly.

"More than a chance, I'd say." Sam quipped, casting a look towards the dragons, still circling the castle. Jon stared at the dragons with a pained look, and Sam went on very seriously. "You _always_ knew you'd have to face the Whitewalkers... Did you ever think you'd be riding a dragon when you did?" Sam glanced over as he asked.

Jon turned and fixed him with a dour look, which Sam returned until each man's composure broke, and together they shared a short, dry laugh.

When the laugh faded back to quiet, Jon looked down. "Sam... I, I don't have much time to..." Jon began, trailing off. Sam felt his jaw clench, and a pit formed in his stomach. Jon took a deep, sharp breath and put his hand to Sam's shoulder before he went on. "I'll see you when we march South."

Sam nodded again, casting his eyes down, and unable to speak past the lump in his throat. Behind him, staring a hole into his back, that terrible dark scrap of sky will have grown larger. Sam swallowed hard, loosening his throat enough to speak, but his words came out thick.

"I'll meet you at King's Landing... with all the force Horn Hill can muster," Sam promised, and cleared his throat. "Send a raven when you've won," he added sternly.

Jon nodded his reply with a sad smile, and Sam threw his arms around his best friend. Twice they slapped each others backs before pushing away. Nodding, Jon turned, descended the steps, and joined the surging sea of soldiers below.

The lump in his throat tighter than ever, Sam blew a breath out, nodded, and turned to the stables. From the covered walk above, Sam could see hundreds of old folk and young children waiting there. A dozen-or-so wagons had already been loaded up, at Jon's command, " _with the bare minimum of supplies, and hitched to the plainest of cart animals."_ The older horses, donkeys and mules that would serve little to no purpose in the coming battle. 

Also crowding the stables, a score more wagons covered with waxed canvas were being readied and lined up, one at a time; they would be filled to capacity with the crippled, the weak, the old folk and the children. At the very front of all the wagons, waiting together, stood Tyrion, Varys, Idri, and Davos along with Gilly, holding his child. The sight of his family convinced Sam to descend the stairs, toward the stables.

When he reached them, he took Little Sam from Gilly's arms and squeezed the boy to his chest. By the time Tyrion nodded a greeting to him, the lump in his throat had eased greatly.

The overwhelming musk of horse did nothing to ease Tyrion's headache. Neither did the racket of the crowd, full of old folk doing their best to quiet the wailing children, nor the red glare of the morning light, spreading its stain through the overcast above. Even with his back to the constant wind, through his brown wool and fur-lined cloak, the cold had seeped into his bones. Lifting his hand, Tyrion covered his mouth as yet another yawn took him.

Last night at the feast he had drunk a bit more wine than he had had meant to. _One cup more_ , to be precise, and the precision meant a great deal to him of late.

The Queen did not care for his habit, so much so that it had been among her very first orders to Tyrion that he cut back his drinking. It was not until receiving that command that Tyrion realized how reliant upon the drink he had become. 

By the end of that first day, he had fallen ill, and that night succumbed to a fever that lasted him two more days. 

Varys had visited his bedside a few times, and any time Tyrion had asked for a drink, Varys offered only water. The third day－ without as much as a drop of wine－ Tyrion had woken up lucid, and felt even sicker with himself than he did to his stomach. Since then, the Spider had kept close watch that Tyrion have only one cup in a day, but on the days that his Queen _happened_ to offer him a second... it was only _polite_ that he should accept...

Tyrion－excepting one or two occasions when his death seemed fairly likely that day－ he had kept to it: one cup of wine per day, _two_ if his Queen offered one of them. However... last night, the euphoria of watching Daenerys publicly exonerate Jaime had dulled his reserve, and Tyrion had taken that second cup for himself. 

After the feast, Tyrion sipped it slowly, the first one taken after his toast to Jaime's freedom. 

_T_ _o Ser Brienne,_ Jaime had added with his cup still held high _._ As Hand of the Queen, it had been easy to find out which quarters Jaime had been shown to: a modest chamber with one cot, one chair by the hearth, and plain, undyed wool stretched over the stone walls and floor. With Jaime in the chair, and Tyrion on the cot, the brothers had stayed up the night, swapping stories of years past until Tyrion finally left for the stables, without as much as a nap.

Just one extra cup of wine, after so many days spent nursing a wine-flavored water skin, had given Tyrion a dull headache that would not let up. Especially surrounded by the stench of horse, and the squalls of children too young to understand the impending, icy _doom_ that would take them all if it could... 

Some of the children were lucky enough to cling, squalling, to their grandparents... but most were held by strangers, who knew their parents only by name.

Tyrion would go with _them_ : the very oldest and youngest, the crippled, and anyone else who could not be afforded extra protection in the battle to come. Such had been one of Jon's commands at the summit yesterday: _"When the dead come, there will be no room for the defenseless in Winterfell. Anyone who can't hold a sword or shoot a bow will go South, with Lady Sansa to seek shelter at Castle Cerwyn."_

Privately, later, Tyrion had argued his case to stay and help with preparations, but it proved fruitless. Daenerys had cut him off quickly and impatiently, in favor of the decision Jon had made. It had been a difficult pill to swallow, but swallow it he did.

That did not mean he had to like it.

"I still feel as though I should stay," Tyrion insisted again as a freshly hitched team of horses pulled yet another empty carriage past, stopping a few paces off. 

"You've mentioned," Varys responded indifferently, not turning to look at him. 

The Spider had been neither surprised nor disappointed to learn he was being sent to Castle Cerwyn with the defenseless. Across the way, a dozen withered men and women－ most carrying weeping babes－ piled into the wagon. As soon as full, the wagon was hauled off, making for the South gate.

Tyrion griped on, watching another empty cart drive by. "What if something goes wrong during the battle, and _I_ would have been the one to see the solution? I could be very useful－"

Ser Savos cut in irritably. "As a light snack for the undead dragon perhaps! Or a plaything for a Whitewalker! Face it, Tyrion, _you don't belong here_."

Tyrion deflated. As self-conscious as he felt to be sent away with the defenseless, Ser Davos could only feel more-so, being a man of normal stature, and fairly well-built for his age, but a terrible fighter. 

Without warning, the old Dothraki Priestess, Idri, spoke up. Even before Missandei's lessons, the old woman had lived long enough to know more than a few words of the Common Tongue. Now she spoke it well, and firmly, through her accent.

"Lord Hand, see me." Idri declared, stepping in front of him and sweeping her hands down her form. She went on, gesticulating in such as way as she did. 

"Old I am. Many years more than you live, I was _Dosh Khaleen_. Hundreds stories I have hear of time when a _Khal_ dies. Sometimes he dies by _arakh,_ sword, or arrow," she listed each one off more dismissively than the last. "Sometimes by thirst, sickness, hunger." Without warning, Idri leaned close to Tyrion with wide eyes and spoke quietly.

"But these thing just _how_ hedies... What truly kill every _Khal_ that I have hear?" 

The woman paused and stared, unblinking, until Tyrion shook his head to show he did not have the answer. " _Pride!_ " Idri poked him hard in the chest, and raised her voice again. "You are not fighter Lord Hand! You are small! Weak. But _in you,_ pride... and _wisdom_." The old woman leaned back, grinning, and gestured to herself again. "Like _me_."

Tyrion blinked, surprised to realize that the old crone was right, and supposed he ought to reevaluate _where_ he placed his pride; after all... he was among the handful of relatively able-bodied, each of whom had been individually convinced by Jon or Daenerys that they were more useful _alive_ , after the Great War, than they were killed fighting it. Feeling better, Tyrion nodded his thanks at Idri. The former High Priestess smiled at him mysteriously, bowed slightly, and stepped back.

It was then that the newly-named Lord Tarly joined them, his round cheeks looking a bit red, even for the relentless, icy wind. Without a word Sam went straight to his woman Gilly and took the babe from her arms. 

Nodding at the new arrival, Tyrion checked off the traveling companions who had already gathered at the stables. Sam and his family would wait with them, but would take their own wagon South when it came time to leave Winterfell. 

Davos, Varys, and Idri were all here; he knew Lady Sansa to be somewhere close by, even if she did not wait in the cluster around him. Only one of them was left unaccounted for.

"Where is Missandei?" Tyrion asked no one in particular. Lateness was very unlike the Eastern Lady, as she had quickly become referred to throughout the North. 


	15. A Red Dawn (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Missandei and Grey Worm talk about the future. Theon and Yara Greyjoy arrive to Winterfell. Sansa keeps busy at the stables, waiting for the wagon train to leave Winterfell. Daenerys asks a favor of Yara._

**A Red Dawn (II)**

Twice now, Missandei had tried to roll out of bed, don her clothes, and make for the stable. And twice, she had allowed Grey Worm to pull her back into his arms. As she lay over his chest, the man traced the bare skin on her shoulder with the gentleness of a silk thread. The sensation sent shivers across her skin, and convinced her that another few minutes would do no harm... especially considering she was late already.

Missandei would never keep her _Queen_ waiting, but the party that waited by the stables did not include the Breaker of Chains. If anyone was to be truly offended by her lateness, it was that frigid girl Sansa, who had not offered as much as a smile at any one of "the foreigners," since they had arrived. _So be it if she grows impatient_ , Missandei thought to herself, _that girl has already decided what we are._

"What are you thinking?" Grey Worm asked, his eyes fixed on her face.

Missandei relaxed as she tilted her head up to smile at him, pushing all other thoughts out. "Nothing important," she said warmly.

Grey Worm did not look convinced, but he let it go. His hand moved from her shoulder, to brush a thumb across her brow and down her cheek. "I have been thinking..." he began, "of what we do when our Queen's war is won."

Missandei tilted herself up on her elbow, her brow furrowing again. What came... _after_ the war was won? She had not even begun to think about it. All slaves learned to endure one day at a time, and it was a difficult habit to break, once formed.

"I am loyal to our Queen." Grey Worm assured. "I will fight until her enemies are defeated. All Unsullied promised to do this. I will keep my promise... But I will make no new promises to Our Queen for after her war is won."

Missandei went to say something, but the words died in her mouth without her knowing what they would have said. Grey Worm's expression softened as he looked in her eyes, and he brushed a thumb softly across her cheek.

"From now on, Missandei of Naath, I make my promises only to _you._ "

Missandei cast her eyes down, deeply touched, and yet uncertain. At once, she wanted two very different lives...

One life she could spend dedicated to Grey Worm, the man she loved and trusted. Loving wife to a good husband, mother of two... The simple life she had once dreamed of, when there had been a collar fixed around her neck. The other life she could spend as the Dragon Queen's proud and loyal confidant, the Master of Tongues, the Voice of the Common People... and the left hand of the greatest woman who would ever live... _The Queen she_ _chose._

Grey Worm stared at her, his eyes asking for an answer, begging her for something she did not have. If Missandei did decide to leave this cold, unwelcoming land, she knew that Daenerys would give her a ship and wish her well. Yet Missandei also knew, as none else did, the immeasurable burden that Queen Daenerys bore, only a small part of which the Queen ever shared.

Without Missandei, the Breaker of Chains would bear her burden _alone_...

"I do not know if I could ever leave my Queen..." Missandei said hesitantly after the long and thoughtful pause.

"Our Queen gave us freedom, freedom means－"

"Making our own choices, yes, but... I do not know if that is a choice I _want_ to make," Missandei asserted, resentful of being put in this position. "Daenerys is not only my Queen, she is my _friend_. How could I live happily, knowing I chose to abandon her when she needed me most?"

Grey Worm said nothing in response, but his hand dropped from her face. For a few seconds he gazed at her with all the hurt held in his eyes. Finally, he nodded, leaned forward, and cupped her face with both of his hands. 

"No more talk of uncertain," Grey Worm declared. "Of this I am certain. I love you. When war is won, I will go where _you_ go. Stay where you stay. Always."

"I love you," Missandei returned, all her frustration forgotten. She pressed her forehead to his and closed her eyes, breathed him in deeply. " _Va moriot,"_ she murmured in High Valyrian, which had no proper word for "always."

" _To the end,_ " Grey Worm agreed.

Missandei kissed him, and when she finally pulled away, the man she loved kissed both of her hands once. The red light pouring through the window demanded her presence, and she stood. Quickly she dressed, and forced herself to walk through the door after one last, lingering look at him.

In what seemed the blink of an eye, Missandei was borne in a covered wagon through the Southern Gate of Winterfell. The Eastern sky, blazing red as the sun had pulled itself over the horizon, stained the waxed canvas cover to a sickly vermillion.   
  


_Red sky in the morning brings a sailor fair warning_ , Theon recalled the old adage as he passed under the familiar stone arch, hardly a hundred paces South of Castle Winterfell. The bay gelding moved at a steady trot. Beside him, Yara rode a large, smoky stallion. 

The horses had been the best, and most expensive, of the handful remaining to the old, grizzled horseman of White Harbor. Older animals, not built for battle, but sure-footed and wise to the Northern terrain. The horses had made good time, adding to that time already gained by the swift, nimble raker they had captured from Blackwater Bay. 

Between here and the open gate, a peppering of soldiers grew quickly to a throng as they drew closer to the Castle. 

Once through the gate, Theon and Yara were forced to slow their horses to a walk; any faster and they would have knocked over a dozen people in as many seconds, or crashed themselves into a loaded cart pushing its way out of the courtyard. 

From his many years as a ward of the Starks, Theon could remember the courtyard at Winterfell as busy, but never _this_ busy, and never had folk of so many colors rushed about in it.

For every pale-skinned Northerner in gray furs he saw, there must have been fifty Essosi in brown leathers and borrowed cloaks. Hundreds of horses－ most of them with bright, colorful coats bearing patterns he had never seen－ passed back and forth through the gates: bearing riders, pulling carts, or dragging litters stacked high with barrels, wood, straw and hand tools. The women driving the carts were mostly Northern, he noticed, though some of them bore the copper skin and tattered brown leathers that marked them as Dothraki. 

Between the stone arch and the chaos of the courtyard, no one had given them a second look.

"Up there," Yara said, pointing to the raised, covered walkway.

Theon followed her eye to see Jon standing on the walk, with his arm on the shoulder of an extremely portly man. They were speaking to each other, not that Theon could not hear from so far off, but their faces looked serious.

"I'm going to find the Queen," Yara said, moving her horse off without waiting for a reply. Theon nodded, hardly hearing her.

When Jon began descending the stairs into the lower courtyard, Theon urged his horse slowly forward through the throng, calling his excuses, but nobody payed him any more mind than before. Ahead of him, Jon had no need to push through the crowd; it separated before him. 

When Theon was only a few steps behind, he swung his leg over and dropped off the bay gelding. The old beast waited patiently behind Theon without being held.

"Jon!" Theon called, surprised at the strength in his own voice, and remembering how it had trembled at Dragonstone. 

Jon turned, stopping with a jerk as his eyes widened. "Theon... Why are you here?"

"I'm here to help." Theon declared, still marveling over the surety he heard in his own voice. Jon's eyebrows furrowed a bit. "If you'll have me..." Theon added hopefully, casting his eyes down.

The whole journey North, Theon had known he may not be welcome at Winterfell, and for good reason: after Robb sent him to the Iron Islands, Theon had betrayed him, and returned to Winterfell as an upstart, a would-be conqueror. To further that end, he had murdered two innocent Northern farm boys. Burnt them to a crisp, so that all of the North would believe Bran and Rickon Stark were dead...

For what felt like a long time Jon only stared at him. Finally, Jon sniffed and looked down for a moment. "How did you get here so fast?" he asked. "What happened to saving your sister?"

"I took my ship," Theon said, feeling the long-forgotten sensation of pride well up inside him. How many years since he had last felt pride? How many more since he had _deserved_ to? "I took her from King's Landing, after I freed Yara. _The Sea Wolf..._ She's a small vessel, but swift, especially against the wind."

Again, Jon stared a few moments, then sniffed. Theon wondered if he had imagined the momentary half-smile Jon gave him. "Can you still shoot a bow?" Jon asked.

"I can," Theon answered in a tight voice, nodding once. Every free moment on the voyage up, he had practiced. He had shot at sea birds for supper, at empty bottles thrown overboard by his crew. No longer was Theon the perfect shot he had been as a young man, with all his pride and fingers, but still good enough to hit every bird, and nine bottles of ten off the deck of a moving ship, making all haste into the wind.

Jon nodded once. "Then you're with the archers, on the battlements. Most of the men here have never shot a Northern bow. Show them." Theon set his jaw, and bowed his head. _I don't deserve this,_ he thought, turning and reaching for the reigns on his gelding. It was difficult to see through the blur that had welled up in his eyes.

"Theon," Jon called from behind him, and Theon turned back. "Thank you." Without waiting for a reply, Jon whirled and moved in the same direction he had been going, down Craftsmen's Alley.

A breath Theon did not realize he had been holding rushed out of him, and he pat his horse's neck a few times. He turned to put the animal up at the stables. As before, no one gave him a second glance while he moved through the crowd. 

The stables were even were more chaotic than the courtyard. Stablehands dashed about, dodging around old folk and young children waiting in unhappy groups. The stablehands, mostly Northerners in gray furs, were all leading horses, carrying hitches, or fixing animals to carts. Some of their faces were familiar, recalled from his years spent here, even if Theon had long forgotten their names... more likely, he had never learned them to begin with.

Not wanting to be recognized, Theon did not look long at anyone, not until his gaze fell accidentally upon Sansa.   
  


It had been impossible for the Lady of Winterfell to simply stand there in silence, surrounded by _strangers_ , waiting for the Dragon Queen's favorite handmaiden to arrive so that they could all leave Winterfell.

The lack of etiquette from the foreign woman did not surprise her, but it was annoying all the same, especially on so little sleep.

It was maddening enough that she, the _Lady of Winterfell_ , was being forced to leave her home in the hands of foreigners. Now, she was being forced to _wait_ to leave Winterfell, _by_ one of those foreigners. It helped only a little to know this was her safest option, seeking refuge at Castle Cerwyn while the others did the fighting. 

There was little the Northern Lady could do to help in pitched battle, after all, but horsework was not such unfamiliar territory as fighting, and the stables had ample need for assistance. 

Frantically, the stablehands scurried about, readying the horses for the first of three very long days' work. Hundreds of wagons already moved about the castle grounds, yet to complete the preparations Jon had ordered, many hundreds more would still need to be hitched up to the animals trained to pull them; animals that would need to be well-fed first.

Most of the horses at the stables were foreign stock, shipped over from across the Narrow Sea. Compared to the Northern animals, the Essosi horses were of a more varied, brighter color, taller, and leaner; looking more like they were bred for war, or travel, than for pulling a cart. By comparison, precious few of the animals being hitched were of Northern stock: stout, strong animals, dark of coat, and more than half of them stolen from Castle Cerwyn. The stablehands themselves, luckily, were also of mostly Northern stock.

Quietly, as Sansa had helped with brushing, hitching, or feeding, she ordered that they ready more carts than were perhaps, strictly-speaking, necessary for the journey South to Castle Cerwyn. Jon had given his order for the _bare minimum_ , but no one would question her command here, and Sansa felt pleased to return as many Northern animals as she could to House Cerwyn.

_Where you belong_ , Sansa thought, tightening last buckle on the second of two harnesses. With a smile, Sansa stopped a Northern stablehand scurrying by with an armful of tack.

"Take that hitch, fix it to these two here, and find a small wagon to load with wine. We should offer a gift to Lord Cerwyn for sheltering us," Sansa explained, holding the leads of the animals she meant to send home: two glossy black mares with strong legs and deep chests.

"Sansa." The familiar voice made her breath catch, and she turned quickly.

"Theon," Sansa whispered, handing the leads off. She rushed over and wrapped her arms about him before she realized what she was doing. "You're still alive," she commended with a smile as she pulled away.

"Somehow," Theon said with a slight grin that fell as he took in her thick, unremarkable gown and cloak. Traveling garb. "You're leaving?" Theon asked.

Sansa sighed and shifted her feet. "Jon has ordered anyone who can't hold a sword or shoot a bow to evacuate Castle Cerwyn, to wait out the storm."

"Since when do you take orders from Jon?" Theon asked, amused.

Sansa cast her eyes down, then looked away before she answered. "I never learned to fight... Not like Arya can. I would only be in the way," she said honestly.

"Arya's alive?" Theon breathed, but Sansa's eyes slid past him.

A ways behind Theon, where the rest of her soon-to-be traveling companions had been waiting, Missandei of Naath appeared at last. It figured that the woman would make them wait, only to arrive the moment Sansa found a reason to want a few more minutes in Winterfell.

The woman's dark lips, and the bow of her head offered apologies, while the rest of the group began looking about to see where Sansa had made off to. The _"Eastern Lady"_ may not have the etiquette, or decency to arrive on time, but the _Lady of Winterfell_ would not keep the entire party waiting any longer.

Feeling rushed, Sansa took Theon's hand and squeezed it once. "Take care of yourself, Theon." Sansa said softly, and paused with her hand in his, finding herself caught by his eyes. 

Sansa had never noticed their color before. The green of them reminded Sansa of the sea by King's Landing. The sea had been the only thing about the Capitol that she had loved. The rich, glittering jade of Blackwater Bay, turning to cobalt somewhere _far_ beyond the shore; it was vast and endless, with infinite possibility, if Sansa only could have boarded a ship and set sail.

But a prisoner she had remained, right up until Theon had set her free. The green depths of his eyes glistened like sunlight scattered on the Bay, until he lowered his gaze to his hands, still in hers, and brought her fingers to his lips.

The softly sung blue of Lady Sansa's eyes always had always reminded Theon of the sky. In color, and in the way that they always looked bigger than seemed possible. If the sky was freedom, then so were Sansa's eyes. 

Theon had carried a torch for her since his first day in Winterfell, as a young boy of eight. Never had he seen hair that color red before, nor eyes so blue. How he had watched her after that day, and despite all her indifference to him, Theon had always thought Sansa the most beautiful girl in the North. As a boy, Theon had dreamed one day he might have the honor of marrying her.

As a man... Theon Greyjoy had chosen his favorite prostitute, Ros, based on her resemblance to Lady Sansa. Flinching, Theon lowered his eyes, and there he saw that Sansa's hand was still in his. To say that Sansa deserved better than him... it did the reality of it no justice. 

His head still bowed, Theon raised his hand and kissed her delicate, gloved fingers a moment longer than was polite, but for that he could not help himself. When he had lowered his hand back down, hers remained in it. Raising his eyes, Theon took her face in like he had never seen it before. Delicately, she slipped her hand out of his.

"Theon..." Sansa began, her voice soft. "Stay alive," she commanded, drawing herself up and sliding past him to join Tyrion and the rest, all waiting by the large covered wagon a few dozen paces off. Theon watched her go, his eyes trailing her mournfully.

Just before she stepped into the covered coach, she turned back to look at him. Even from here, her eyes were beautiful. They crinkled a bit when she offered him a slight smile, and raised her hand. Theon raised his in return, and she ducked into the coach.

He stood there, watching the wagon until it passed through the gates of Winterfell, before he turned and made for the battlements. _With the archers,_ he remembered proudly, and wondered where Yara would fight in the battle to come. _Probably on the ground, in the thick of it._

Unlike himself, Yara was steadfast: a warrior, with a strong arm and an stout heart.  
  


The Unsullied soldier led Yara through the stone halls of Winterfell. Upon the walls, every iron brazier was lit and burning brightly, offering a blissful warmth after the two days Yara had spent riding in the frigid wind. 

Her leather-and-plate armor was not designed for warmth, and the grey wool cloak about her shoulders had made about as much difference as her screaming curses into the wind. There had not been any fur left to purchase at White Harbor. For the first time in days, flexing her fist in the warm hall, Yara could feel her fingers.

The door the Unsullied soldier led her to was already open: the war room of Winterfell. Across the war table, facing the door, the Silver Queen leaned over the table with her hands spread to either side of it. The large map that she was studying bore the outline of the Castle and the surrounding geography. 

Just behind the Queen stood Ser Jorah Mormont, who nodded to Yara as the Unsullied led her in. The Queen did not look up as they entered.

" _Yārā Grāejoy, ñuha Dāria_ ," the Unsullied man declared, and the Queen's gaze snapped up from the map. A surprised smile bloomed on the Queen's face, and Yara could not help but wonder, again, if those lips were as soft as they looked; they certainly looked happy enough to see her...

" _Kirimvose_ ," the Queen replied, straightening up from the table. The Unsullied nodded and left the way he had come.

"Your Grace," Yara greeted fondly, appreciating the Queen's fine woolen gown of silver, trimmed in black fur. The red silk wrap about her waist accentuated her svelte figure. The high-collared chest piece, covering her breast and shoulders, looked hardened beneath the charcoal wool, and upon it was embroidered a dragonscale pattern in beads of black glass, each one no larger than a grain of sand. The beads glittered faintly in the flickering light of the braziers.

"I'm surprised to see you here," the Dragon Queen began, still smiling. "When Varys told me you had escaped, I thought you would retake the Iron Islands."

"There's not much to retake. Euron took every able-bodied Ironborn with him across the Narrow Sea. By the way if the Great War is lost... there won't be any Ironborn left to rule," Yara replied levelly.

"We will not lose the Great War," the Queen said decisively, with the unflinching confidence that Yara was attracted to first and foremost in any woman. Yara grinned, and nodded in agreement. "I am glad you're here," Daenerys went on, with glance at Ser Jorah. The old Knight grinned back in a knowing way. "I don't suppose it's too soon to ask you for something?"

"What do you need?" Yara asked.

The Queen began to move around the war table as she talked, her fingers laced together in front of her navel. "Jon Snow has sent the defenseless South, to seek asylum at Castle Cerwyn. Jon trusts that his sister's influence with Lord Cley will protect _everyone_ , but..." The Queen rounded the corner, and the distance between them vanished. Daenerys was so close to her now that Yara could lean in to kiss her. As the Queen issued her quiet request, her lips barely moved. " _I_ need someone I can trust to go South... someone to keep Missandei and Idri _safe_."

Yara furrowed her brow, pulled her chin back. "I came North to fight for the living in the Great War, and now you're commanding me to run and hide from it?"

"I'm not commanding. I'm _asking_ ," the Queen said softly. The soft green pools of her eyes drew Yara in. "The Great War is your fight, as it is the fight of every man and woman alive. I cannot force you to abandon it."

"You have over a hundred thousand men sworn to obey you... Why me?" Yara asked curiously, not saying no, but not understanding either.

"Lord Cerwyn made his opinion on _foreigners,_ " the Queen rolled her eyes at that, _"_ perfectly clear. I cannot spare the soldiers for a proper escort, and though any _one_ of the Dothraki or the Unsullied would die to protect Idri and Missandei... if I send one of my men _alone_ to Castle Cerwyn..."

"Someone will cut his throat as he sleeps, just for being there," Yara finished, and Daenerys nodded gravely in reply. "I'll do it," she decided.

" _Thank you,_ " Daenerys intoned gratefully, taking her hands. For a beat, the Ironborn woman gazed at the hypnotic green flames in the Silver Queen's eyes. Then, to her astonishment, Daenerys leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

"What was that for?" Yara asked with a husky grin as Daenerys pulled back. _Even softer than they look_ , she decided.

"Call it a token of my gratitude," the Queen replied with a mischievous look.

Yara raised her eyebrows and tilted her head a bit. "You need any other favors, while I'm here?" she asked in a sultry voice, and Daenerys pursed her lips in a smile but said nothing more. "When do I leave?"

"As soon as possible," the Queen said firmly. "The wagons will have left already. Qhono will saddle you the freshest horse he can find. If you leave by noon, you should catch the others by dusk."

Yara nodded, glad to have a few hours to eat a hot meal, find warmer clothes and tell Theon where she was off to. "I'll keep your girls safe," Yara promised. The Queen smiled, nodded confidently, and reached an arm forward. Yara took it at the elbow. 

By the time the crimson of the Eastern sky had progressed to violent orange, Theon was on the battlements. A crowd of Dothraki stood around him, watching quietly as he raised another arrow to his cheek, drawing back as the bow swept past his chest. 

"Theon," Yara called from behind him. 

The arrow loosed. It buried into the chest of one of the many practice dummies set far outside the walls. The man closest to him slapped his shoulder with a few words he did not understand, but sounding like a question. Turning to Yara, Theon handed his bow off to him short nod, and the man took a turn at aiming while Theon moved to his sister's side.

"What is it?" Theon asked. 

"First of all you owe me coin," Yara said, smirking. Theon shook his head, not understanding. "The Queen kissed me." 

"Bullshit!" Theon laughed, his eyes widening when Yara maintained her smirk. "Where?"

"On the cheek," Yara said with an innocent shrug, glancing off to the side. 

" _On the cheek_ wasn't the wager," Theon reminded her smugly. "Where did Daenerys put you?" He asked, speaking of course of her position in the battle to come.

"Castle Cerwyn," Yara replied, then shrugged at the look he gave her. "The Queen's girls need a guard," she intoned, nodding towards a small cluster of Northmen, who glared over their shoulders at the copper-skinned Dothraki. "Someone who blends in."

The Dothraki－ the one Theon had passed the bow to－ loosed his third arrow, which must have hit its mark, because the others around him exulted, whooping and laughing and slapping the copper-skinned bowman on the back. The bowman said something in Dothraki, gesturing to the bow, then to Theon himself. 

"Should I come with you?" Theon asked nervously, looking back at her, but Yara was already shaking her head.

"Stay here," his sister sighed. "You have your orders. You kill the dead men... _I'll_ rescue the damsels in distress." Yara grinned.

Theon sniffed a laugh and smiled. In the Eastern sky, the striking orange had already paled to near-silver. "You leave now, I take it," Theon assumed, and she nodded. He put his arm forward, and his sister took it at the elbow. "Be careful," Theon told her, gripping her arm tighter. 

"What is dead may never die," Yara said solemnly, though she smiled as she said it. 

"What is dead may never die," Theon agreed. 


	16. A Red Dawn (III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Brienne trains in the yard with the women and Podrick. Jaime makes himself known at a conspicuous moment. Tormund offers Brienne a gift._   
> 

**A Red Dawn (III)**

The practice yard was full by the time the wagon train had left for Castle Cerwyn. By noon, the red blaze of sky had given way to dull silver, and the yard was packed tight. 

Ser Brienne had spent all morning sparring up to eight women at a time, while others watched shrewdly and waited their turn. In the months she had been training them, she had focused heavily on parries and counter strikes; how one fought enemies coming from all sides. From Jon Snow, she had learned the dead fought with overwhelming force, but no true skill. 

"Block, parry, return strike," Brienne repeated perhaps a thousand times, doing to each woman as she said it, and sending each flying backwards on the third motion. Sometimes, it was "dodge" instead of block. Either way, after each woman was down, she would pause, and address the weakest among them specifically. "And mind your bloody footwork! In two days you'll be fighting an endless horde. If you're taken off balance, you're finished. Take a defensive stance," she barked, and when they had, she corrected their forms. 

It was never going to be enough training, not enough to make up for all the years most of the woman had lost to _propriety_... but it was the best training Brienne could give in the time they had. 

Most of the women who had remained to fight felt more comfortable, and learned more quickly sparring with Brienne. The why of it was no secret to her. For one thing, Brienne refused to hold back on them. For another, she could offer useful advice without _rambling_ on. 

If she knew anything of a man teaching a woman the ways of the sword, it was that he would always refrain from using his full strength, and that he thought a thing must be said _five times over_ to be heard once.

While the sun rose, the red stain receded from the clouds, and Brienne ordered the women to practice one-on-one. Ser Brienne had saved the afternoon for Podrick. Last night, her loyal squire had waltzed out of the feast hall with a stunning Dothraki woman on his arm, after politely requesting the morning off from training. Normally Brienne would have refused such a request, but knowing they both could be dead in three days softened her.

Brienne wondered again what it was like, to be proudly led off by a man for all to see... to be bedded. Perhaps less than three days left to live, and still she did not know what it was to lay with a man. Not that she would throw herself at just anyone; end of the world or not, she had _standards_ , and there was only one man in Winterfell that Brienne thought...

In her distraction, Podrick got two quick hits on her arm, nearly knocking the sparring sword from her hand. 

Once, she could fight the boy lost in thought, with a bandage over her eyes and one hand tied, but his skill had sharpened in recent weeks. Be it their daily trailing, or the impending doom, Podrick had finally overcome his plateaued progress.

With a stubborn yell, Brienne managed to parry his attack at the last moment, then brought her sword up to strike at his hand. Usually that move sent Pod's sword spinning off, but this time he channeled the force of her blow upwards, maintained his grip, and returned the attack without hesitation. 

Twice Pod struck from the top, swinging his sword down hard, while she blocked easily. Brienne hurled a fist at his exposed gut. With his free hand, Pod grabbed her arm, and at the same moment threw himself back. Stumbling past him, Brienne caught herself heavy on one foot, pivoted, and swung her sword behind her with a loud grunt, but it swung through empty air.

Several paces back, Pod had assumed a perfect defensive form. Feet spread to shoulder width, his right foot slightly forward, knees slightly bent and his sword angled across his chest... _Good_ , she thought. With a grin and a few heavy breaths, Brienne set the point of her practice sword down on the ground. 

"Well done, Podrick," she commended, still a bit out of breath. Their match had gone on almost an hour, and neither one had gained a killing blow on the other. With real swords, they would both have been cut to ribbons by now.

Pod set the point of his practice sword down and returned the grin. "Thank you Ser," he replied, just as winded as she.

The moment was interrupted by the familiar sound of a mocking laughter, coming from just behind her. Turning, Brienne saw Tormund standing with Jorah to one side, and the Dothraki lieutenant to the other. Qhono wore a cruel smirk that Brienne knew well. She steadied her breathing, inhaling and exhaling in long, slow breaths. 

"He fight like woman," Qhono declared in a thick accent, crossing his arms and taking a few swaggering steps toward Podrick, who glared but said nothing. When Pod refused to rise, Qhono turned his leer on her. "Like _ugly_ woman."

A short silence fell, broken suddenly by a throaty giggle from Tormund. Qhono smirked wider, surely thinking the wildling at his back was laughing _with_ him.

"Careful, now." Jorah cautioned. "Even across the Narrow Sea, I heard tales of Brienne of Tarth. She beat the Kingslayer. She beat _the Hound_ ; two of the best fighters Westeros has ever seen." Brienne glanced at Ser Jorah with some surprise. "Ser," Jorah added politely, nodding his respects.

Brienne nodded back at him, then returned to scowling at Qhono. The Dothraki lieutenant was still squared up with her, his jaw set. As Brienne stared levelly back, her jaw clenched, a familiar look of uncertainty flashed in his eyes, but it was gone quickly. 

Qhono shrugged and laughed, shaking his head. "Woman weak. Men fight... It is known." Qhono said in an easy manner as he began to turn away, towards the other men.

"Why not prove it?" Brienne called after him loudly, stopping the man short. The Dothraki turned back, stared at her, then glanced at the other two men and laughed boisterously. Jorah only watched with an expectant smile, and Tormund with an open-mouthed grin. After a few chuckles, Qhono realized－ at last－ that he was laughing alone.

As his laugh waned, Qhono shrugged if off, but the nervousness had grown more obvious in his narrowed eyes. "No real," he sneered, gesturing to the sparring sword she still held. Brienne tossed the weighted wooden sword aside indifferently. While the practice sword clattered on the stone, she drew _Oathkeeper_ from its sheath.

Qhono's eyes widened. Taking a step back, he looked to the men behind him. _For help_ , Brienne was sure. Men realizing they would not win the fight against her _always_ turned to other men for help, but Jorah and Tormund only watched, silently, with the same expectant grins. 

When no support came from the men, Qhono turned back, though now he looked more at _Oathkeeper_ than at her. Brienne was so intent on the man before her－ sizing up the way he moved, which leg he favored, the reach of his curved blade－ she did not notice another man approach from behind her, not until Jaime spoke.

"You'll want to surrender now instead of later," Jaime said suavely as he brushed past. Jaime put his arm over Qhono's shoulder and leaned close, speaking quietly. "Trust me. If you feel embarrassed now, you can't _imagine_ how you'll feel in a moment, when she has you down on the ground, with her boot on your neck..." Jaime spoke like it was a fond memory. "No one was around to see it happen to _me_ , thank the _Gods_... For you though... I expect the whole Castle will be watching."

Not sure what Jaime meant, Brienne followed his eyes around the yard. Seeing what he did, she grew hot within her armor. Much of the practice yard had stopped sparring to watch the confrontation, especially the women: Northern and Dothraki alike, the women stared with malice at Qhono, and the all the men who had stopped watched curiously. 

Up on the ramparts, Jon Snow and the Queen herself observed, both looking stern. The Queen, in a gown of silver and darkness banded with red, stared at Qhono with narrowed eyes, her arms folded behind her back. 

"Khaleesi say no," Qhono grumbled quickly, taking a few steps back before turning and shouldering past the other men.

Tormund let out another loud, throaty giggle while Qhono retreated into the crowd. The courtyard returned to its former bustle as the situation diffused. Casting a glance up, Brienne received slight smile and nod from the Queen.

 _A peculiar woman..._ Brienne thought, nodding back at her politely. Just last night, the Dragon Queen had publicly threatened to burn her alive, and _would_ , if Jaime did not stay true to his word... And yet, if not for the strange and powerful woman, Jaime would still be rotting in the dungeons below Winterfell, where Lady Sansa had meant to keep him...

"Very well done, Ser," Pod said beside her, pulling her attention back. Pod grinned, bouncing up on his toes to better watch Qhono retreat through the crowd.

Ser Brienne smiled widely at her squire. Pod had not called her anything but " _Ser_ ," since she had been Knighted, last night. "Thank you, Podrick," she replied simply.

There was much and more beneath the thanks, things she would not say aloud to the men, though they were a large part of her joy. All her life, Brienne had been forced to fight to prove herself. Men would team up against her, mocking her from all sides. Many fights she had fought and won against several men at once. 

Never before _today_ had men banded together in _her_ defense, to make mockery of the man who laughed first. She nodded appreciatively at Ser Jorah and Tormund before turning her attention to Jaime.

Pod held his hand out. "It's good to see you, Se－ ah... Jaime."

It still sounded strange to him. _Jaime_. No _Ser_. No ' _my lord_.' Just... _Jaime_ , wherever he went. Not that he had talked to more than a handful of people since the feast, but still, it was strange. Jaime reached out and shook Pod's left hand with his own.

"Likewise, Podrick," Jaime said, with no need to feign sincerity. "I caught the end of your fight. Ser Brienne has trained you well. I wonder if I could borrow her, for some one-on-one training?" Jaime asked, as smoothly as he knew how.

Podrick looked to Brienne for an answer, which she gave after a slight hesitation. "Podrick, the women still require as much practice as they can get, if you would. Four of them against you at a time, if not more. Mind their footwork."

"Of course, Ser." Pod turned on one foot and moved toward a group of sparring women, stretching his arms out as he went. Jaime noticed, appreciatively, that each woman in the sparring circle was _correctly_ holding a shortsword. 

The sudden pain in Jaime's shoulder confused him. With a grunt, he turned to see a massive man with flaming red hair and beard, gripping his shoulder with an enormous hand. "Who are you?" The man leered down at him, his blue eyes wide and threatening.

"I'm Jaime La－ just... Jaime," he grunted, wincing his way through a grin. "And you are?"

"I'm Tormund fucking Giantsbane..." From the way he growled, Jaime figured he should know the name already, but he only knew the man for a Wildling. "I wonder, _just Jaime_ , if I could borrow _her_... for some _one-on-one_ training?" Tormund growled in a poor imitation of Jaime's voice, tightening the grip on his shoulder while he did.

"Be my guest," Jaime replied, and managed to stifle the gasp of relief as Tormund released the iron vice from his shoulder. Brienne led the red beast off to the side of the practice yard, and Jaime watched nervously from the corner of his eye, stretching his shoulder while the two spoke together in low voices.

Of all the men that might try to steal his Big Woman from him. A scrawny Southerner, with _no_ beard... and _one bloody hand?_ Tormund could not believe it. A man could not fight half as well with only one hand! Furrowing his brow, he remembered that Qhorin Halfhand had killed more wildlings than any other Crow in a hundred years.

"Tormund," his Big Woman said when they had moved a ways off.

"I made you something," Tormund exclaimed, unable to hold back any longer. He patted his thick hide garb, trying to remember which pouch he had slipped it into. Finally he pulled it from his left breast pocket, the first one he had pat. The gift fit easily into his hand, and he wondered again if he should have made it bigger.

"Here," he said, clearing his throat as he thrust it over to her. 

The small ivory statuette was her likeness. Tormund had carved it himself from a chunk of mammoth's tusk. The Big Woman in her armor, carved and polished to a gleaming white, holding her longsword point-down on the ground, with a serious expression on her face. It had not taken him very long to make, as it was so small, but he had put as much detail into it as he could remember. 

Trying not to be nervous as she glanced down, Tormund reminded himself that Jon had said the carving was good, and Jon could not lie. The same man had convinced Tormund that a gift might be better-received than the Wildling tradition of a kidnapping. Now, he could not tell from her expression if Jon had been right or not.

The Big Woman took the carving into her hand and looked at it quietly a few moments. Tormund bit his tongue until he tasted blood, and waited for her to say something. Unable to hold back his excitement any longer, it burst out of him.

"It's you!" Tormund said gruffly, pointing at it. "Brienne. _Ah_ , Ser," he added. Jon had told him to use her real name and title, as well. Was that a smile at the edges of her lips?

"I see that," she replied, still looking down at the carving. "It's... very well-done."

Tormund beamed. _Well-done_! The smile that overtook him was almost painfully wide, growing even wider as she looked up from the carving.

"Thank you for this, Tormund. You're... a very good friend," she said. Tormund smiled wider, and she looked long at him before she went on. "I appreciate what you did for me back there, with Qhono," she said, gesturing behind her. "Thank you."

Tormund was ecstatic; this was by far the longest, most intimate conversation they had ever had. He wrapped both his hands around hers, still holding his carving. One day, their great big monster children would hold that very carving in their massive hands. 

"I will do that for you _every day_ for the rest of my life," he said in a low voice. "Any man who insults you, I'll rip his tongue from his mouth," he vowed.

"I don't want that," she replied quickly, taking her hand back.

Tormund laughed heartily, more fond of her than ever. "Of course you don't, woman! You'll take their tongues yourself!"

"No, I mean..." she paused a long time, and he stared at her eagerly, waiting for what felt like a long time to him. Finally she spoke, and her words were firm, even for her.

"We are not meant for each other, Tormund. As a _friend_ , I do like you, very much. But... that's _all_. I hope you understand."

Tormund furrowed his brow, and felt as though he had been punched in the gut. It would have been easier if she had _actually_ just punched him in the gut. Confusion overtook him. Why was a fighting man like him not meant for a fighting woman like her? "But... the carving," was all he managed to say, pointing at it. Why would she have taken his gift, if she felt this way? 

_For fucks sake, Jon has me gift-giving like a scrawny Southerner... I should have kidnapped her,_ Tormund realized angrily. _The next time I see that stunted little runt of a Crow..._

"Tormund, I... I am sorry, if I inadvertently did anything to make you think I felt the same way. You and I, we come from very different worlds." He might not know what 'inadvertently' meant, but he understood the rest well enough. His insides felt like they were turning to jelly, the way blood did, if you let it freeze and then thawed it out again. Slowly, his gaze dropped, and Tormund took his hands off hers.

"But... I would keep this, if I could," she said quietly, gesturing with his carving.

"Why?" Tormund asked loudly, his gaze snapping up as all the hurt burst out of him in a single, choked word.

"This is the first... Oh, nevermind," she mumbled, looking down.

"The first what?" Tormund demanded.

"Forget it," she insisted.

"Damn it, _speak_ , _woman_!" Tormund shouted, and she whirled on him.

"The first gift like this I ever got from a man that wasn't a joke!" Brienne shot back quietly, thrusting the carving at him and looking away. Not even he could miss the scarlet that crawled up her cheeks. For a few moments Tormund stared, and his frustrations faded.

"You should've been born North of the Wall," Tormund decided finally. "That's the world you belonged in. Your world is even more fucked than I thought, if a woman like _you_ never got a gift before." Tormund reached his hands out and closed her fingers gently back over the carving. "I made it for you. Keep it," he said gruffly, tightening his grip on her hands.

Roughly, and without warning, Brienne was pulled into his chest, and Tormund held her with all the strength of a bear. Brienne hesitated only a moment before she put her arms around Tormund and returned his hug, eyes wide, patting him twice on the back. When the Wildling pressed his face into her neck and inhaled deeply, she decided to ignore it. 

Tormund turned and walked away quickly after they separated, muttering to himself. All she heard of it was "crow." 

Feeling dazed by the encounter, Brienne drifted back to where Jaime waited in the practice yard, running a thumb over the smooth ivory carving in her hand. Jaime leaned casually on a wooden pillar that supported the covered walkway above.

"I didn't figure Wildling was your type," Jaime said, stretching his shoulder a bit.

"He isn't," Brienne said quickly, slipping the carving into her pouch, which hung on one of the many wooden pegs decorating the wall of the practice yard. "But... he's not so bad," she added honestly, picking up a sparring sword that leaned against the same wall. 

"What do you mean?" Jaime asked, eyeing her pouch.

"Did you come here to talk, or are we going to practice?" Brienne snapped. "Somehow I doubt sitting in a dungeon has done your forms any good."

Brienne did not have time to wonder what he was doing, when Jaime straightened from his lean against the pillar and moved towards her. In a moment, he was standing right in front of her. The serious look on his face brought her temper up short.

With his left hand, Jaime reached out, and for the second time that day－ and in her life－ a man took her hand into his.

" _You_ are the only reasonI left that dungeon alive," Jaime intoned with as much gratitude as he could manage. "Thank you." Jaime kissed her fingers, and in an effort to _seem_ as genuine as he felt, he hid the smile that her dumbstruck face might have given him. Brienne stared at him with her eyes glittering faintly, her mouth set and her brow furrowed.

Jaime held his composure until a hesitant smile began to play at her lips. Only then did he allow his usual flippant look back onto his face. Sliding his hand out of hers, he took a step back and picked up a sparring sword, twirling it once in his hand to get a feel for the weight of it, then spread his arms wide.

"Now then, are you just going to stare at me... or are we going to practice?"

If Jaime did not know her so well, he might not have moved his sword in time to block her lunge. In the hours of sparring that followed, Jaime took five hits for every one he managed to land on her, and yet he felt more at ease with a blade than he had in years. Since his sword hand had been cut off at the wrist. 

While they sparred, the sun continued its arc across the sky, the overcast grew denser, the wind picked up while the temperature fell. When the sun stood halfway down to the horizon, the silver light of noon had faded to a dim twilight, tinged above with grayish green.

"Ser," came Pod's voice. Jaime and Brienne both broke form, panting, to see that most of the yard had emptied around them.

Besides the two of them, it was only Pod and a young, pretty Dothraki woman with large eyes, full lips, a heart-shaped face and long, dark hair tied back in a thick braid. On either hip, the copper-skinned beauty wore a short, curved black dagger. The unfamiliar woman stood next to Pod with a casual sort of patience while Pod went on. 

"Not expecting of course, Ser, but... I was hoping I could have the morning off again tomorrow? Zhea wanted to see me again and..." Jaime could not help but chuckle, the way Pod danced around saying what he wanted the morning for.

"Noon tomorrow," Brienne allowed after a pause. A spritely grin took Pod, who offered his hand to the woman－ _Zhea_ , Jaime figured－ and began to lead her off. "Not later!" Brienne called after him more sternly.

"Of course not, Ser!" Pod called back to her without slowing. 

"You hold a longer leash than I expected you would," Jaime commended, watching Pod and Zhea walk off together. "I wish I'd squired for you, instead of Ser Barristan."

"Podrick has grown quite capable with a blade," Brienne said simply, not looking at him while she set her sparring blade neatly on the rack; she spoke as if that were all there were to the matter.

"Well, he learned from the best," Jaime replied, playing along to her logic. "I'm starving," he declared, and Brienne continued to tidy the rack without looking at him. "Surely you must want to eat supper."

"Of course I want to eat," she replied. Other than that, the woman gave him nothing, continuing her assessment of the rack without turning.

"Shall... _we_... get some supper?" Jaime asked more directly, knowing that with Pod occupied, and Sansa Stark gone to Castle Cerwyn, there was no reason for Brienne to say no... right?

Half turning to look at him, Brienne paused with a suspicious look on her face. "Why are you being so nice to me?" she asked.

_Seven Hells, but she is the most bullheaded..._

"Because, you deserve it!" Jaime groaned. "Now _lets go_ , before I freeze to this spot and get stuck fighting the Long Night with a damned sparring sword!" 


	17. Castle Cerwyn (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _On the quiet wagon ride South to Castle Cerwyn, Ser Davos muses on Jon, Daenerys, and her ancestors. Tyrion attempts to counsel Sansa. At dusk, Yara reaches the wagon train and joins Missandei and Idri in their tent._

**Castle Cerwyn (I)**

The red dawn that had stained the canvas of the wagon hurried to a silver noon, just four hours later. All the while, the wagon train lumbered along, heading South.

After spending so much time among the Northern folk, Ser Davos had become more than accustomed to prolonged silence. Most Northerners were quiet enough, only speaking when there was something important to say. Davos had grown quite fond of it; it made his job easier after all.

The silence within the confines of the cramped, covered wagon however, was something else entirely. The chill in the air was only partly due to the constant rushing of the North wind trying to blow the wagon off its wheels.

Ser Davos sat farthest inside one bench of the coach. Tyrion sat beside him, between himself and Varys, nearest flap door tied shut at the back of the covered wagon. Missandei and Idri shared the bench across from the men. Each one of them was hunched over, shivering for warmth despite the many layers of thick wool and fur. Lady Sansa, however, stood tall and straight on the small bench at the front, nearest the horses, and facing all the others with her gloved hand folded primly in her lap.

Sam Tarly, Gilly, and their child had taken a separate, smaller wagon, bound South not for Castle Cerwyn, but Horn Hill; they set a much faster pace South, and Davos would not see Sam again until they met at King's Landing. 

_Assuming I live long enough to have the pleasure,_ Davos thought with a sniff. A man as old as himself, in the middle of what would be his _third_ war... _I could die tomorrow and it would be overdue_...

Hours ago, Tyrion had finally given up trying to lighten the mood with jokes, which no one had as much as chuckled at. In truth, Davos had thought the one about the honeycomb and the jackass in a brothel worth a laugh, but when no one else even sniffed, he decided he better not be the first. After that, no one had spoken. The Queen's Hand scowled to himself now, his arms crossed beneath his heavy cloak, and his eyes tight at the corners. A man as uncomfortable with silence as anyone.

On the other hand, Davos was more accustomed to tense silence, from his time spent serving Stannis. Though now, of course, he wished he could take all his time serving the man back; what was done was done. Still, the Onion Knight wondered again if Stannis had always been evil deep down, or if the Red Woman Melisandre had planted the seed of darkness within him; cultivated it, until it spread its thorny roots deep into Stannis' heart. Perhaps if Stannis had not been so stony, Davos would have known sooner what terrible things the man would do in his quest for power. Perhaps Davos could have stopped him...

The harsh wind outside rushed again, louder a few moments, pushing through the thin canvas and bringing a fresh chill. The howl of it through the trees sounded to him a shrill, distant screaming... Ser Davos hugged his cloak tighter around himself.

Now, King Jon－ Davos would always think of him that way, no matter how confused his title became－ he was a quiet man as well, but a downright talker compared to Stannis. Davos still had difficulty believing that, of all people, a smuggler from the dregs of Flea Bottom had somehow come to serve two _different_ Kings on the shores of Dragonstone. The first, Stannis, had locked him in a prison cell there, for the terrible crime of refusing to condone the burning of innocent men. Later, King Jon had brought Davos back to Dragonstone, to help him beg the aid of a Targaryen Queen. Back then, Davos had not been thrilled to learn that she, herself, had quite a reputation for burning men alive.

 _"I think she has a good heart,"_ Jon said, after Davos had asked what he thought of her. A good man, Jon Snow, but too quick to trust if Davos had any right to an opinion on it. Jon had only known the Dragon Queen a short time when he said it, and most of that time spent as just a cell short of a prisoner. Yet as far as Davos could tell, King Jon had been right from the first. 

The Red Woman had burned innocents to further her goals: she burned young, gentle _Shireen_ without a second thought, and believed herself just in it. Ser Davos had already seen Queen Daenerys go to great lengths, and take heavy blows to avoid harming even a single, nameless innocent.

At Dragonstone, the Queen's hand had advised asking her people _they_ thought of the "Mad King's daughter," and Davos had done little else on Dragonstone but take the advice. Everyone he had asked said the same of Queen Daenerys Targaryen: a good heart, and a strong will. A just, and fair ruler: one who inspired and cared for the common people, and intimidated the high lords in their halls of stone.

 _Like her ancestor Rhaenys the first,_ Davos thought to himself. _Shireen's favorite..._ The constant, grieving ache he felt for Shireen throbbed. With all the recent madness, Davos realized－ with some guilt－ that he had been simply too busy to properly mourn the young girl. But now, stuck in a silent wagon with naught to do but think to himself, the old man wondered what Shireen Baratheon would have said about Queen Daenerys.

 _Good things, I'd bet_... Davos thought with a melancholy smile which, huddled over for warmth as he was, went unnoticed by all. _Shireen always saw the good in everything... even her father._

Stannis' daughter had been the one to teach Davos to read, after her father had locked him in the dungeons beneath Dragonstone. The first book he ever read had been titled _An History of Aegon the Conqueror and His Conquest of Westeros,_ but as much as it was about Aegon, titled for him even, it was about his two sister-wives: Rhaenys and Visenya Targaryen. Shireen had _insisted_ it be the first book he read. Like so many other young girls throughout Westeros, Shireen had great love and admiration for the Targaryen Queens of old, particularity Rhaenys.

 _"Queen Rhaenys was fierce_ and _gentle." Shireen insisted. "She couldn't fight as well as Visenya or Aegon, but she was one of the youngest dragonriders in history! And she always protected the smallfolk..._ Shireen had told him many times, each and every reason that she preferred Queen Rhaenys to Visenya, though she had admired both. Shireen had told him about the dragon-riding Queens so many times, that by the time Davos read the facts for himself in _An History_ , he had already known most of them by heart. Including that it was Queen Rhaenys' line that had launched the Targaryen dynasty, after Visenya's line died with her only son, Maegor the Cruel.

Each musing on the Dragon Queens of old came to his mind in Shireen's voice, and Davos huddled the cloak closer to himself, and sniffed.

Ser Davos still was not sure that Aegon, or his sisters, had any right to conquer Westeros with Fire and Blood, but what was done was done, he supposed. Other books on the older history of Westeros had revealed the Seven－ independent－ Kingdoms had been war-torn for long years before Rhaenys and her siblings arrived at Dragonstone with a few hundred men. 

_After all, the dragonriders were far from the first to claim Westeros as their own, when they had no right to it..._

Thousands of years before the Conquerors were even born, Westeros belonged to the Children of the Forest. For timeless centuries the Children had lived in Westeros, the original and _only_ inhabitants of the land, until the First Men arrived from Essos. Without as much as discussing cohabitation, the First Men started a war with the Children for the right to the land. It was not long, however, before the First Men came to realize that the Childrens' magic would not be so easily conquered, and a peace was eventually forged between them.

After the First Men came the Andals, also Essosi, bringing with them the Faith of the Seven. The Andals overthrew the Southern houses of the First Men and destroyed all the Southern Weirwood trees, so that _their_ Faith could better take root. The Andals proliferated throughout most of Westeros, save the Iron Islands and the North.

After the Andals came the Rhoynar, on ten-thousand ships, led by the Rhoynish Queen, Nymeria. _Another hero of Shireen's_ , Davos remembered. At first, the Rhoynar were more refugees than conquerors, but Queen Nymeria quickly married into House Martell of Dorne. After that came Nymeria's War: together, the Martells and the Rhoynar fought to unite all of Dorne under House Martell. _Shireen had always wanted to see Dorne..._

With a sad smile, Davos remembered that her to thank for all he now knew about the history of Westeros. It had all started with that first book on the Targaryen Conquerors, which after his first few lessons, Davos had sounded out slowly by the light of a single candle, in a cell beneath the ancestral home of the very three dragonriders he read about. Even back then, the irony had not been lost on him. 

Of course back then, Davos did not have the foggiest daydream that _he_ would ever come to serve the very _last_ Targaryen, Daenerys Stormborn.

As Ser Davos chuckled softly at the poetry of it all, every pair of eyes in the silent wagon locked to him at once. Awkwardly, Davos turned the chuckle into a cough. The eyes moved off him slowly, one by one.

Last of all to look away was Tyrion, who looked for a moment like he would try to get a conversation going again, but after a quick look at Lady Sansa, Tyrion kept his silence.

As the sun began to sink, the wind picked up from a constant rush to a dull whistle as it pushed its way through the trees. Tyrion was glad, even before the wagon halted, for whatever windbreak the trees provided, though he could do without the eerie whistling.

The wagon train stopped to camp in a slight clearing deep within the Wolfswood, and Tyrion winced as he stretched his legs and stepped down from the wagon. To the West, the afternoon sun shone though a slight thinning in the heavy clouds, like a great gash in the sky. Beams of pale yellow light illuminated the valley their campsite overlooked.

Tyrion took a small swig of watery wine from the skin, which he had taken to keeping tucked inside his cloak, up against his tunic so that it would not freeze. Thinking of nothing except the cold, Tyrion's eyes drifted to the Lady Sansa, who stood by herself a ways off, facing North.

 _Nobody glowers like a Stark,_ Tyrion thought sadly. He looked at Varys, who stood next to him as usual. Few besides were willing to let the Spider come so close, for fear of getting caught up in his web.

"Wish me luck," Tyrion said as he straightened himself and moved with purpose towards Sansa. As he approached, Tyrion tried to think of the right thing to say to a woman like Sansa Stark. A woman who had seen as much grief and pain as anyone he knew of.

"Lady Sansa," was all Tyrion could think to say when he finally arrived at her side. The Lady turned slightly to look at him from the corner of her eye.

"Lord Tyrion," she replied, turning back to face North. "What do you want?"

Tyrion gulped. As straightforward as any Northerner, and more. Tyrion tried to adopt what he could of Jamie's flippant attitude, but it felt forced. "I wanted to speak with you alone. We haven't spoken since Joffrey's wedding I believe."

"Best wedding since the wars started, I think." Sansa said, her mouth curling up at the edges in a cold half-smile.

"Indeed," Tyrion replied, wishing she would look at him instead of staring North. "Joffrey's death was glad tidings for us both, and the realm. If only someone had murdered him sooner... It _did_ cast some suspicion on _me_ , when you disappeared," he put forth, and paused. Sansa did not say anything, nor did she look at him. "Did you kill him?" Tyrion asked, without judgment. Truly, he was only curious.

"I wish I had," Sansa replied wistfully, finally turning a bit to look down at him without moving her feet. "I thought you did."

"You and everyone else," Tyrion replied sardonically. The Lady sniffed and turned her eyes back North again. The silence went on a while. "I'm glad you're alive," Tyrion said finally, but Sansa said nothing, and did not as much as glance his way. "My Lady... I wanted to ask you why you so mistrust Queen Daenerys."

That did it. Sansa blinked and turned to face him, and it was then that Tyrion saw the shadows beneath her eyes. "I do not mistrust _her_ ," Sansa explained. "I only fear for the safety and well-being of the North, as is the responsibility of the Warden of the North."

"I assure you, the North will be safe and well, so long as they accept Daenerys as their rightful Queen," Tyrion said simply. He left out that Lady Sansa was no more Warden of the North than he was, not until Daenerys decreed it... "Daenerys has no wish for unnecessary bloodshed; in fact, she has always made great efforts to avoid it."

Lady Sansa gave him a look as if he had said something very stupid, and the look lingered for a few moments. "She came to Westeros with the largest army the world has ever seen, and three fully grown dragons," Sansa said slowly. "Do you _really_ think she will not bring any bloodshed?"

When Tyrion would not answer, Sansa went on, changing her tone. "As Warden of the North _I_ am responsible for the safety of the North. What do you think she will do, if they refuse her?"

The question sounded rhetorical, but Sansa said nothing more, despite his hesitation. Tyrion paused a long time, gauging her.

"I cannot speak for what Daenerys will do," Tyrion answered honestly. It was true. For one thing, Daenerys had not been very forthcoming with him of late, and for another the Queen had a habit of defying all his expectations. Either way, he was not keen to feed Sansa the information. "But I _do_ know that Daenerys did not come to Westeros to be Queen of the Ashes. Her armies followed her here because they love her. Because _everywhere_ she goes, evil men die screaming... You two aren't so different, really."

Sansa stared at him a few moments before finally sniffing, and her lips turned up at the corners. "Perhaps you're right," Sansa allowed, and turned to face the North wind again. Tyrion, feeling dismissed, bowed awkwardly before returning to the camp.

"How did it go?" Varys asked him, but Tyrion ignored him. Slipping the wine skin out from beneath his cloak, he took a painfully short swig of the watery mixture as he pushed his way inside the tent that had been erected for himself, Varys and Davos to share. 

Tyrion did not come out again until the sun touched the horizon, bathing the ever-thickening clouds in ugly yellow. 

Between the foreboding red morning and the yellowing eve, darkening rapidly around her, Yara was relieved when the wagon tracks finally gave way to the wagon train itself. More relieved to see that they had already made their meager camp, and that half a dozen fires were burning between the small, low-roofed leather tents. The flickering flames struggled in the gaining wind, but the fires had been built up enough to chase off some of the encroaching gloom.

A long day of travel in harsh wind, but luckily not a flake of snow had fallen from the sky, not since the night before last. With the sky behaving as it was, the fair weather could not hold long. The storm soon to come would have little mercy for someone out alone at night, and the many thick layers of brown fur, hide, and wool she wore around her armor would do next to nothing if she were caught out in it.

The last of her nervousness fell from her shoulders when Yara passed the first campfire. There were, of course, no guards posted to question her identity. The only greetings Yara received as she walked her stout, dark mare into the wagon camp were the nervous glances of old folk, poking their heads out to investigate the moving shadow. They quickly withdrew back into their flapping tents without a word. Out of one the tents emerged a small, heavily cloaked figure.

"Lady Greyjoy," Tyrion greeted her, surprise plain on his voice. "What－"

"Our Queen asked me to come," Yara said gruffly. "Apparently she thought sending her most valued allies to shelter with the least trustworthy man in the North, without any sort of guard at their backs was a bad idea."

"Yes, well... Desperate times," Tyrion replied hesitantly, then he nodded. "We are lucky to have you. You have my thanks."

The man sounded genuine, but then the silver on his tongue would not allow him to sound anything but, and Yara would never forget that he had once advised the Queen _against_ allowing the Iron Islands sovereignty. "Where are Idri and Missandei?" she asked gruffly.

Tyrion furrowed his brow, and gestured to one of the smaller tents nearby. Without another word, Yara moved her horse past him. Making quick work of tying her horse, strapping the feed bag over her nose, and throwing a woolen blanket over the animal, Yara pushed her way into the tent and sighed at the warmth.

In the center of the tent floor was a wide bowl of smoke-blackened stone, about a pace across, and filled to just under the brim with bright orange embers. Sizzling meat hung over the coals, on skewers balanced across the rim. The warm, rich scent of it filled the small space. 

Sitting cross-legged on either side of the stone bowl, looking at her with wide eyes, were the two women Yara had been sent to protect.

"Lady Greyjoy," Missandei said pleasantly. "Meaning no offense... but what _are_ you doing here?" The Ironborn woman stripped off her brown, fur-trimmed cloak and hung it with the other two on the plainly-made rack. Underneath, the woman wore her usual brown, leather-coated steel cuirass, with the Kracken of House Greyjoy etched upon the breastplate. Burgundy wool beneath her armor showed only at the arms.

"Daenerys sent me to keep you safe," the woman replied simply,squatting down by the fire and holding her hands out to warm them.

Missandei shared a gladdened look with Idri.

It had been tense thinking, for the two outlanders, to wonder what sort of reception they would receive at Castle Cerwyn. Hostile glares were certain, but both Idri and Missandei were too wise to not expect worse. Both had been told by their Queen to stay out of sight as often as possible, and to trust no one whose names they did not already have. Missandei had not needed the meaningful glance to know the Queen was _also_ talking about Lady Sansa, who had yet to introduce herself to any of the Essosi folk. 

"Are you hungry?" Missandei asked, offering the fair-skinned woman a skewer of roasted hare, which Yara accepted gratefully.

At first there was little conversation, but by the time the sun failed, the three of them were chatting amicably over the whistling wind.

"When I turned sixteen," the seafaring woman recalled, "my father gave me command of a ship. He led me to the docks and told me, _'Captain is the first man to board, and the last to make port.'_ " Missandei chuckled at the rough, haggard voice Yara used to emulate her father. "As soon as I set foot on deck, the old man cast the ropes off the dock and told me not to return to Pyke until I had earned myself an able crew."

Idri gasped. "What do you _do_?" she asked with great concern.

Missandei cast her bemused grin down politely. The old woman, like most of the Dothraki, was strongly averse to the idea of "riding wooden horses on the Poison Water."

The Ironborn woman threw her hands up and shrugged, then said with a laugh, "I took my time! Picked up a few men in The Crag, then sailed for Braavos. From there I worked my way South; spent the whole year sailing port to port in Essos, never stood on land for more than a day or two at a time."

" _Ohh_!" The old woman moaned, her hand over her heart, seeming ready to faint at the very _idea_ of a year at sea. A laugh bubbled out of Missandei, and Yara joined in. The many laughs they would share, while night fell around their tent, did something to ease the worried tightness in Missandei's chest: for herself, for her Queen, for Grey Worm... for all the world.

Outside the tent, in that darkness beyond the thin walls housing idle talk of brighter places and fairer weather, the wind picked up from a soft whistle to an endless, unpredictable shriek. 


	18. Castle Cerwyn (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The wagon train including Tyrion, Davos, Varys, Missandei, Idri, and Yara arrive to Castle Cerwyn, and receive a troubling reception._

**Castle Cerwyn (II)**

For many long hours of Tyrion did his best to not listen the wind screaming, to not feel the cold rushing in through the flap door, fluttering raucously through the night. The dawn that followed those hours of waiting was, without doubt, the darkest in his memory. 

Somehow, no snow had yet begun to fall, but the sky above his tent seemed an impenetrable wall of dark stone, with only the faintest lightening in the East to tell that somewhere beyond it, the sun had not vanished altogether.

 _Not yet at least_ , Tyrion thought grimly as they all piled quietly back into the coach, having made short work of breaking camp. 

The silence was heavier than yesterday. Tomorrow, sometime after dark, the dead would reach Winterfell.

Today, his wagon bore the same occupants as yesterday. Tyrion shared his seat with Varys and Davos; Idri and Missandei sat just across, and the ever-quiet Lady Sansa sat in the rear-facing seat farthest forward. Lady Greyjoy had elected to ride behind them. Tyrion, hunched over and shivering, was still wondering how someone could willingly choose to ride in this wind when the wagon lurched to a halt.

It was not quite noon, they had been moving only a few hours, but the carriage remained still, while the unmistakable rolling grind of a gate being drawn came through the canvas wall. Lady Sansa let out a long breath, smiling slightly to herself and brushing her hands down the skirts of her black and fur traveling wear. 

When the grind of the gate turned to quiet, the wagon pushed on a short distance, and stopped again, inside the walls. 

Without waiting for the others, Sansa rose silently and picked her way through the cramped aisle. Within a few beats, she had untied, and stepped out of the flap door at the back of the wagon. 

"Lady Sansa!" Tyrion heard several adoring voices call. 

He waited for some sort of introduction from Sansa, some announcing of guests, anything, but none came. With a glance at Idri and Missandei, then at Varys and Davos, it seemed they were each as reluctant as he was to be the first out after her. Trying to summon the ruse of courage that his brother had long mastered, Tyrion pushed out the flap door.

A sweeping glance around the courtyard did not show him the crowd of mistrustful glares he had grown used to. In fact, it had nearly emptied, with a majority of the crowd trailing off in the same direction... after Lady Sansa. 

The few Cerwyn guards who remained payed them no mind at all, assisting the other wagons full of old folk and ever-squalling children. All around was the courtyard of Castle Cerwyn, narrower than the one at Winterfell, but stretching all the way round the Castle.

While Winterfell Castle was－ ultimately－ much larger than Castle Cerwyn, the trade capitol of the North had the larger courtyard, to better accommodate more merchant wagons and wares during the trade season. Nestled within the courtyard were two tall towers, _the Gatehouses_ , which sat to either side of the Kingsroad. The road itself ran straight through the grounds with tall walls to either side of it, and a great portcullis on the North and South sides. 

The Gatehouses were connected to one another by an arched, covered stone bridge. Scattered wide past either side of the Gatehouses, tall stone buildings planted around with old hardwoods made up the rest of Castle Cerwyn.

Just to his left, leaning back on the wagon, Yara Greyjoy waited. "Took you long enough," she gruffed.

Tyrion stepped down to the ground and stared after Lady Sansa, who was being led off by Lord Cerwyn towards the West Gatehouse. Lord Cerwyn was as younger than he expected, and nearly as pretty to look at as Sansa, especially in a fine woolen tunic of silver, belted with gray and a dark fur cloak about his shoulders. The man was gesturing in a welcoming manner, talking excitedly with Lady Sansa. Even from here, already ten paces behind, Tyrion could see a wide grin on Lord Cerwyn's face, and a dainty one on Sansa's. A crowd of cheering smallfolk trailed after them without looking back.

Varys appeared at his side, and stared after the parade with the same tight look on his face as Tyrion had. 

"Well, I suppose I should be off to the nearest orphanage," Varys said quietly, pulling the gray hood of his heavy cloak up over his hairless head. Tyrion pulled his gaze from the quickly diminishing Lady Stark, and looked at the Spymaster.

If he did not already know who it was, and failed to look closely, the gray-and-fur garb could have been wrapped around any man in the North. Varys even held himself differently. Usually Varys folded his arms together in front, but now he had his gloved thumbs tucked into the narrow leather belt at his waist. It was a posture Tyrion had never pegged as Northern until now.

"What do you mean?" Tyrion asked, still uneasy at the idea of being separated before they had a grasp of what they had just walked into. 

"Do you think the world's largest network of spies simply builds itself? Little Birds fly well on their own, but they only _sing_ for a reward." Varys returned, tapping a leather pouch tied on his belt. The pouch was plain and ordinary, except for emblem of a swooping sparrow burned into the leather. The bottom of it was strained with the weight it carried; the Lannister in him knew the bag was full of enough gold to buy the orphanage itself. 

"Perhaps you should wait for dark," Tyrion suggested. A disguise worked twice as well in dark as it did at high noon.

"Either you're drunk again, or you truly see _nothing_ wrong with this picture," Varys said sternly, not needing to gesture at Lady Sansa and her wordless departure for Tyrion to know that was what he meant. More quietly, he went on. "You know how thinly woven my Northern network is. If I wait for dark, my Little Birds will sing no songs until morning, and right now I have more _questions_ than answers," Varys said with great discomfort.

"Be careful," Tyrion called as Varys began to move off. His walk was different, too, jauntier, with more motion in the arms and legs than Tyrion was used to seeing from him. The Spymaster did not turn back, and Tyrion watched him round the corner, marveling at how little he resembled Varys as he did.

"I suppose I should be the one to ask about our arrangements," Ser Davos gruffed after he stepped down from the wagon.

Without waiting for a response, Davos moved over to the closest wagon, where a Cerwyn guard was watching the old folk step down carefully, and unlike some of the others, not lending any of them a helpful hand. It was not the proximity that Davos had chosen this particular guard for, but the way the his armor was a bit finer than the others. A man who liked fine things suited the old smuggler just fine.

"Beggin' your pardon, friend!" Davos greeted amicably. The guard turned to face him with an unflinchingly rigid face. With a grin, Davos pulled a gold coin from his pocket and offered it to the guard. "For your troubles," he said merrily. The guard glanced far off to his left, and following his eye, Davos saw an officer gesticulating at two others, both wearing standard garb.

"The name's Seaworth," Davos said, pulling the guard's attention back, and not missing the glint of recognition in the his eye. It would do the Onion Knight no good yet, getting prideful that his－ of all names－ was now recognized as the right hand of King Jon. "My companions and I were wondering where we might put ourselves after our journey," Davos went on casually.

The stone-faced man glared with the same expression as before, and Davos fished back in his pocket. He turned up two more gold coins. "For your troubles," Davos said in the same merry manner as before, and the stern look on the guard's face finally cracked. A slight, greedy twist to his lips appeared, and with another cautious look at his commander, he reached forward and took all three gold coins in hand.

"Follow them to the guests' quarters," the guard said gruffly, with a sharp nod at a group of old folk being led off. Davos grinned, that much could have been guessed without help.

"Many thanks, friend. And if I were to need any more assistance..." Davos said meaningfully, producing three more gold coins from his pouch. "I imagine King Jon will be grateful for your troubles, when he joins us," Davos intoned, holding onto the coins.

The greed in the man's eyes had little trouble rooting out the uncertainty. The guard gave one last glance towards his commander. "Name's Darry," he said tightly, holding his hand out. Davos slapped the coins into his outstretched hand, shook it once.

"Good to meet you, Darry. I'm Davos." Knowing there was no need for any further talk between them, Davos released his grip with a short nod and returned to his traveling companions.

"Right this way," Davos said pleasantly, gesturing for them to follow.

The quarters the older man led them to spoke nothing of lavishness, but not as grim as some of the quarters the Eastern Lady had once occupied. It was more spacious than she had expected. Mostly, Missandei was relieved that all six of them would be able to stay together in this room, and that Lady Sansa had not returned from wherever she had gone. 

The square, stone room had no windows and one door. The three narrow beds on one wall were stacked, so that each bed was two instead of one, with a small ladder to reach the top bunk. The wide, low hearth, filled with glowing red coals but otherwise barely burning, was built into the wall opposite the beds. 

Six chairs were set in front of the hearth, and a tall pile of wood was stacked to either side. In two corners, a divider of plain wood stood so that they might change clothes with some privacy. Beneath her feet was a worn woolen rug of slate gray, just lighter than the stone behind it, and upon the walls were hangings of the same gray, with a silver axe sewn in the center.

"Fucking Northerners never manage to get sick of gray," Lady Greyjoy scoffed, hanging her cloak on the wall.

"They do seem quite fond of it," Missandei said quietly as she, too hung her cloak. Though considerably warmer than it had been outside, the room still did not feel at all warm enough, and Missandei tossed two logs on the hot coals. The orange tongues licked up the seasoned wood hungrily, scorching the sides and breathing fresh warmth into the air.

"My Ladies something is greatly amiss," Tyrion said gravely, fixing the lock upon the door into place.

"You think?" Lady Greyjoy asked, pulling her sword free of its sheath, and a sharpening stone from one of her pouch. The Ironborn woman sat herself down in a chair by the hearth, then began running the stone over the blade. Missandei sat next to her, and Idri followed suit, taking the seat next to Missandei. The men stood standing by the door.

"If anyone runs into trouble with the guards," Davos began, "trouble you can _talk_ your way out of, I mean, ask for Darry. The man doesn't want us here any more than our gracious host, but he does seem keen enough to line his own pockets."

"No one should leave this room unless they have to," Yara declared with a glance at her, then Idri. "Especially you two."

Missandei nodded to Yara, then looked to the men. "Where is Lady Stark?" she asked, putting forward the question that Tyrion and Davos seemed eager to avoid. A beat of silence, then Tyrion answered stiffly.

"When Varys returns, we will know for certain," Tyrion said.

" _Speak plain_ ," Idri said sharply, casting a hard look at the man. For a moment, Tyrion fidgeted under the old woman's stare.

"Lady Sansa may be conspiring with Lord Cerwyn," Tyrion murmured, almost too low to be heard.

"Now, you don't _know_ that," Davos said firmly.

"I don't," Tyrion agreed. "But I do find her behavior in the courtyard rather difficult to explain."

"It might've been she led them off on purpose," Davos defended, "to spare us the angry mob for a welcome wagon! Jon said we could trust her to talk sense into Lord Cerwyn, and it could be that she's doing just that. It wouldn't look good for her, being tight hipped with foreign folk."

Missandei cleared her throat, and Davos nodded bashfully at her and Idri. "Meaning no offense," he added.

"Perhaps," Tyrion agreed again. "But only a fool plans for the best scenario without expecting the worst. We are _alone_ here," Tyrion reminded the old man. "We have _one_ guard between the six of us, and no aid coming until the Great War is won."

"Strictly speaking, I'm _their_ guard," Yara mentioned without looking up from her sharpening, tilting her head to the two women seated next to her. Other than the sour look Tyrion gave the Ironborn woman, he ignored her comment.

"When Varys returns," Tyrion said placidly, "we will know the full extent of our danger. Until then, I suggest we all remain here." Tyrion took the seat next to Missandei. After a brief hesitation, Davos followed suit.

For hours, they waited in tense silence, with the lock on the door still set in place. Finally, a quiet knock came at the door. The flood of relief Tyrion felt at the knock sent him jumping up to answer it. Unlatching the lock, he pulled the door open.

Whatever he was about to say died in his throat when he saw that no one waited behind the door. A glance down the short hall revealed a young boy, not older than twelve. The boy was skinny, with a short mop of messy brown hair, and dressed in the very plainest of gray leathers.

On his belt, the boy wore a plain leather pouch, with the image of a swooping sparrow burned onto it.

The boy was gesturing silently for Tyrion to come closer, alternating between waving him close and putting a finger over his lips for quiet. It was plainly bizarre, but the Spider was ever meticulous in the manner that he sent his messages, and the bag at the boy's waist could not belong to anyone else.

Hesitating, Tyrion glanced back, hoping Lady Greyjoy would rise to accompany him, but she remained seated with the others. 

At the end of the hall, the opposite direction from which they had come in, the boy was gesturing more frantically for him to follow, silently. Taking a breath, and some small comfort at the knife he wore at his belt, Tyrion set the door shut behind him and moved toward the boy.

When he was halfway down the short hallway, the boy ducked around the corner, and Tyrion quickened his pace.

Turning the corner, he saw only a dead end. The boy was gone. An impossibly empty, slightly rounded end to the hallway stared at him, with nothing but two benches on either side. A glance down revealed the corner of the rug was turned over, and beneath it, wood. 

_A servant's passage_ , Tyrion thought, pulling the rug over and opening the trap door.

A set of ten-or-so wooden stairs, lit with candles, stretched down from his feet. At the bottom, the boy darted ahead as soon as Tyrion set his eyes on him, still gesturing for him to follow. With his courage waning, Tyrion set his jaw and descended the stairs slowly.

The long corridor he found himself in was dimly lit by candles on small wooden shelves, every ten paces or so. The boy was already at the far end, waiting for Tyrion to catch up, still waving him on. 

The end of the hall split off into two directions, three if you counted the door leading straight through the wall.

When Tyrion reached him, the boy stopped his wild waving, and pressed his finger to his lips, a most serious expression on his face. Nodding, Tyrion put a finger to his own lips, and the boy took his finger off his mouth and put his hand on the door.

The door opened without a sound. It led to a small balcony, set with a round table of dark wood, and two chairs besides. The balcony itself was about five paces above what could only be the Great Hall of Castle Cerwyn. 

The silent hall looked not unlike the one at Castle Winterfell, but for a much taller ceiling and four raised balconies set around the room. Each was connected to the hall below by a narrow, spiraling stone staircase, and sectioned off from the open air with a short wooden railing.

At the sound of an opening door, Tyrion froze, but the sound came from somewhere below them. Footsteps followed, and voices. All went silent before the doors were shut.

"My Lord, this is..." Sansa's voice sounded hesitant, even from here. As she went on, it gained a more commanding edge. "I cannot fault your sentiment but this is _not_ what we discussed..."

The boy pressed his finger to his lips again, and Tyrion nodded assuringly. The thin wooden railing that hid them from view, up on the balcony, bore thin slats in it, and the boy pointed to one of them for Tyrion to look through. A sliver of light illuminated his unseen eye as Tyrion peered through the railing and into the hall below. And suddenly, he knew why the boy had insisted so many times that he remain quiet.

The head table of the Great Hall was empty except Varys, in the central seat. _No,_ Tyrion thought desperately. _He can't be..._

The Spymaster's mouth hung open, a dark trail of blood dripping down from his gaping lips, joining a much thicker trail upon his chest. The red gash on his throat went ear to ear, and the eyes just above them gazed－ bruised, and half-lidded－ at nothing. 

Written in blood upon the wall behind Varys' corpse was spelled, incorrectly, _Valar Morgulis._

Tyrion swallowed the bile down and forced himself to look away; he forced himself to focus not on the bloody corpse that was once his best friend, but instead on the last piece of information that Varys would ever bring him, playing out below. 

Tears streamed silently down his face while he watched, his breathing labored even if it was quiet.

"Apologies, Your Grace," replied Lord Cerwyn. "I'm afraid my passion for our country has spread to my men." There was no sincerity in his apology, only pride. Tyrion would see the man burn for this, if it was the last thing he ever saw. The Lord of the Castle still wore his fine silver tunic, with dark trousers and sleeves beneath it. Closer up, he saw that the tunic was finely embroidered with black thread at the seams. The dark fur shawl still hung about Lord Cerwyn's shoulders, but now Tyrion could see the delicate silver chain that held it in place.

Tyrion tasted blood, watching Sansa give the mutilated corpse of his best, most trusted friend a quick and disdainful look. When she spoke, her voice was strained. "The Spider's web is woven far tighter than you assume, my Lord. Clean this up, _quickly_ , and send the men who did this to wait outside my chambers."

"Your Grace, they were only protecting our children," Lord Cerwyn said in a placating tone. "The lecher was discovered trying to infiltrate one of our orphanages, as Your Grace wisely warned me that he might."

"I wanted him _watched!_ Not _butchered_!" Sansa shouted, and Lord Cerwyn took a short step back from her fury, but Sansa stepped forward twice. "Your _passion,_ " she sneered, "will turn this Castle and the entire North into a smoking _ruin_! Or have you forgotten why she is called the _Dragon Queen_?"

"There is only one Queen in the North," Lord Cerwyn said, taking Sansa's hand. "Your Grace, forgive me. I will send the men responsible to await your judgment."

" _Clean this up_." Lady Sansa ordered, pulling her hand free. "Burn the body." With a last, withering look at Lord Cley, Sansa turned and left, through a door that must be just below the balcony Tyrion watched from.

Ignoring the frantic tapping on his shoulder, he watched the soldiers starting to wrestle with the bloody corpse. A hand gripped his shoulder and pulled him gently, but firmly away. That hand went to his arm, and the boy pulled him back through the door.

 _We ran from a meat grinder to a slaughterhouse_... Came the distant thought. Feeling his legs move numbly below him, Tyrion followed even after the boy let his arm free.

Back through the servant's passage. The child stopped at the bottom of the staircase that would lead up to the hallway, and motioned Tyrion up. Fumbling, Tyrion fished a gold coin from his pouch. At first the boy refused, and only motioned for him to hurry. Tyrion thrust the coin at him again, his mouth twisting up as felt fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. The boy took the coin, kissed it, then all but shoved him up the stairs.

The trap door shut behind him with a soft click, and Tyrion was alone in the hallway. There were no thoughts in his head while his legs moved him slowly down the short hall. Nor when he knocked gently on the door with a single, bent finger. The door opened, and he stepped through it. Davos said something he did not hear the first time, nor the second. 

Sitting himself by the fire, Tyrion gazed thoughtlessly into the flames. Two of the others said something, but all he could hear was the snapping of the fire as it blackened the wood.

A knock came at the door, a soft and hurried rapping. At the sound of it, something inside of him righted itself enough to speak. "Don't open it..." 


	19. The Maiden and the Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jaime and Ser Brienne share a morning together._

On the second morning after the feast, Jaime woke in the same manner he had fallen asleep: naked in bed, lying under the furs beside Ser Brienne. The sight of her sleeping form, the pale of her skin covered to her shoulders, brought a flood of memories from the night before, and a soft smile to his face.

After their long day of sparring, they had gone together to the feast hall. Jaime had felt about as nervous as Brienne had seemed. Tight lipped and awkward, the two had shared a quiet meal together, at first, bullshitting about the Queen's generosity and how Tyrion was faring lately. During the meal, some wine. After the meal, a few cups more...

"You fought well today," Brienne told him, grinning and taking another sip.

"Now I know you're drunk," Jaime quipped, and smiled at the way she laughed into her cup. Jaime set his own wine down. "Perhaps we should slow down," he suggested. It had been some weeks since he had last had any strong wine, and his tongue felt looser by the moment. Any more and he might say something to earn him a cold slap on the face.

"Or we could finish them upstairs," Brienne said suddenly.

Jaime swallowed, wondering why he should feel so nervous, when he had been about to suggest the same. "Are you drunk?" He asked, though he knew she had only drunk the same two cups that he had, and she was bigger than he was.

"A bit..." Brienne answered, and flushed. "Look, you don't have to if you don't _want_ －"

"I do," Jaime insisted, casting a smile down. "Very much..."

Brienne stared at him for a few moments, looking stern, before she threw back her wine cup and finished whatever remained. "Let's go, then," Brienne stood on steady legs, and Jaime laughed when she pulled him roughly up from his chair and after her, out of the feast hall.

It had taken him almost ten minutes to help the woman out of her damned armor, but after he had... everything about it had been different than it was with Cersei. So different, that last night, with Brienne, he had not even thought about his sister. Not until after Brienne was asleep, and the thoughts far from pleasant. 

_When Cersei finds out_... there was no doubting she had already assumed. For a woman who had fucked half the Kingdom, Cersei was always as suspicious as she was jealous; just to _look_ at another woman was enough to inspire murder in his sister, let alone his last encounter with Brienne in the Dragonpit, just before he abandoned Cersei... let alone _last night_. 

_Thank the Gods Brienne can handle herself, to say the least_ , Jaime thought. He found himself surprisingly indifferent to the wrath and pain this would bring Cersei, when she inevitably found out. _There's nothing left to her but wrath and pain..._

Brienne stirred a bit, and Jaime turned his gaze back to her, grinning. Lying beside him, just on the cusp of waking, Brienne looked as peaceful as he had ever seen her.

Her eyes fluttered open, and the first thing she saw was Jaime smiling at her, his chest bare. "Good morning," Jaime said casually. "How's your head?"

"Fine," Brienne replied curtly, leaning herself quickly up on her elbow and holding the furs to her chest. "Yours?" she asked over her shoulder. She had only had three cups of wine before... Brienne blushed.

"Mine's killing me," Jaime replied seriously. "I can't remember a thing. Why... did something happen last night?"

The horror played on her face as she turned to look at him, and Jaime chuckled. Realizing the jest, Brienne laughed as well, shaking her head and covering her face with her hands. "Has anyone ever told you you're a twat?" she asked, lowering herself back down to lay next to him.

"Once or twice, I think," Jaime replied, staring into her eyes. "It's a good thing you gave Podrick the morning off," he said, lacing his fingers through hers.

Brienne smiled bashfully in reply, and brought his hand to her lips. "It does free up my morning a bit," she murmured suggestively. True, she would have to make her way to the yard before too long, but the women knew enough to manage their _warm-ups_ without her...

Grinning, Jaime rushed in and kissed her with all the same fervor that he had last night, and he kept kissing her, though he quickly moved away from her lips...

By the time they stood up together to make for the yard, her legs felt strangely loose, like her knees had turned to jelly. Jaime helped her into her armor, laughing quietly as she wobbled on unsteady legs. 

After they had both dressed, she moved to the door. With her hand on the lever, a frown took her face, and she realized Jaime would probably not want anyone to know about what had happened between them, even if it was just to keep Cersei from finding out... Brienne turned back to him, frowning; Jaime titled his head, smiled, and laced his fingers into hers.

"If that Giantsbane fellow sees us together..." Jaime began, "I hope I can count on you again, _Ser_ Brienne, to defend my honor."

Brienne only got halfway through her solemn nod, before a laugh broke her composure. _Giggling like a maiden_ , she thought, _well...not anymore_. Grinning, Brienne tightened her grip on his hand, and opened the door. 


	20. The Blood of the Dragon (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Daenerys demonstrates her command of Drogon. With the Long Night drawing near, Jon must learn to do the same with Rhaegal, and quickly. The Khaleesi redistributes power in the khalasar.  
> _

"Open the gate!" Jon called. 

Without missing a beat, the North Gate of Winterfell cracked open in front of him. Jon had no need to see it, to know a thick sheet of ice had piled up on the outside of gate, blown onto the North-facing side by many storms past. As the huge, black gate creaked open, slabs of the ice sheet began fall, smashing upon the ground ten paces back, as the North Wind screamed through the gap between the gates.

Fifteen paces back, atop his great black destrier, Jon grimaced at the gate, wondering if he ought to order it shut again as the last of the broken ice fell to the ground. When he looked at Daenerys, she cast a glance back at him, the coolness of her eyes crinkling at the edges a moment. Without looking at him again, she rode on, through the North Gate.

His Queen rode her spirited white palfrey, one of the finest animals Jon had ever seen. The mare was strong, tall and slender, a sprinter with a gleaming white coat that shone even with the sun buried under dark clouds. Both Jon and his Queen were dressed as if to match their mount, with Daenerys in her white and red fur overcoat, with a white fur shawl about her shoulders, and Jon in his usual dark leathers and furs.

Daenerys moved as one with her animal, one gorgeous beast made of two separate halves. He wished the same could be said for himself and his horse. There was a jaunt in his black's step that tossed him a bit when the animal was feeling frisky. _I was always a fair rider... but only fair,_ Jon thought anxiously. For today at least, if not tomorrow, Jon was glad to be spared of having to climb on top of the dragon's back. Jon swallowed.

Just behind them, a team of four stocky brown horses pulled the largest wagon Winterfell had to offer. Ser Jorah was at the reigns, wearing many thick layers of brown furs. Piled atop the wagon were hardened leather straps of different sizes, each ending with a steel fixture, either a short chain of thick, wide links, or a stout hook curling over to almost touch itself at the base. Scattered around the wagon rode seven young Dothraki: four men and three women. Each was mounted atop Essosi stock of varied, moderate to fair quality.

The party marched between the dark stone pillars on either side of the North gate. The terrain just beyond the North walls was a windblown flat, sloping very slightly up to the base of a steep hill. Just Northeast there was a small patch of forest, but besides the trees there was nothing in the flat area except a thick blanket of snow. Any decoration that might have been here for festival, market, or tourney had been put away within the walls, long before the White Raven flew from the Citadel to announce the coming of winter.

Above, the dragons shrieked, and Jon flinched as he was reminded why they had come out here to begin with. Turning to Daenerys, he received no comforting glance this time; the Mother of Dragons gazed up and out, towards her children. When she dismounted, he followed suit.

For two days now, her children had circled Winterfell, hunting and resting, and hunting again. As she dismounted, the dragons broke from their circuitous route. With a distant pair of screeches, they turned straight for the flat clearing just North of Winterfell. A smile took her, and she began to walk farther away from the Castle, closer to her children.

Jon had dismounted as well, and moved to follow her, but she stopped him with a slight turn and a raised a hand. _First, you must learn_. After putting a few dozen paces between herself and the others, the dragons circled once overhead. Daenerys waited, and the dragons leaned back in their flight as they reached her, pumping their wings to slow themselves. She shut her eyes against the sting of the snow that roiled in the air as they landed.

When the snow had settled, the dragons whined softly and walked closer, and the breadth of Daenerys' smile felt strange on her face. It had been too long, since Dragonstone, since she had been able to spend any proper time with them. For a short time she forgot that Jon, Jorah, and the Dothraki waited behind her. For just a precious few moments, it was only them.

The Mother of Dragons reached a hand up, and straight away, Drogon lowered his head. Love burned softly in the smoldering red coals of his eyes, and the deep garnet frills that decorated his face swayed rhythmically it drew closer. The frills gave one last shudder before they lay flat, when Drogon finally pressed his cheek into her hand. With a whining sigh, Drogon shut his eyes and leaned into her touch. Gently brushing his cheek with her fingers, Daenerys felt warmer than she had in months.

Although years had passed since her children had been born in the smoking pyre, Daenerys had never lost her awe for the heat of their flesh. The ruthless cold of the North wind vanished beneath her dragons; their massive bodies shielded her from the gale, and warmed the very air around them. Drogon pulled his face away, and Daenerys held her hand up to Rhaegal next.

The smaller of her two surviving children leaned his head down until he was mere inches from her hand, but came no closer. Her smile fell, and Rhaegal pulled away with a soft growl. _He may forgive me for chaining him, but he will never forget it,_ she thought sadly as she lowered her hand. It was true that Rhaegal had stayed by her side since then, and still he _looked_ at her with _love..._ but neither had he allowed Daenerys to touch him since.

The last time she had touched Rhaegal had been in the catacombs below the Great Pyramid of Meereen. She had put a chain around his neck and _left him_ in the dark, with only Viserion to ease his loneliness... At the time, she had done only what she thought she must do－the right thing－ after Drogon had killed the child... There was very little that she regretted since she had come to power, but _that_ was a failure for which she would never forgive herself. Knowing what she knew now, there must have been another way to prevent...

 _What is done is done,_ she thought ruefully.

Daenerys glanced behind, and Jon moved forward quickly to stand beside her. His eyes were fixed to hers, and she nodded up at the dragons with as much encouragement as she could manage. Slowly, Jon turned and reached a hand up.

For a minute, Rhaegal kept his head well above Jon's hand, with his fangs bared and his dark emerald frills twitching suspiciously. Dark smoke poured steadily from the corners of his mouth, and his growl came as a soft, continuous thunder, but Jon did not lower his arm. Eventually, Rhaegal dropped his head a bit and sniffed Jon's hand from a short distance.

Jon kept both his eyes and his hand up, and held them steady. _Good_ , she thought.

Jerkingly, Rhaeghal moved his head closer, inches at a time, until at last he nudged his snout briefly against Jon's hand. Just a touch, no more, and yet more than she had received from Rhaegal since her wretched mistake in Meereen, years ago. The joy that surged in her heart was streaked through with sadness. _What is done is done,_ she thought again.

"You must be still for this," Daenerys told Drogon, stroking his frill as he eyed her. Behind her, the wagon began to roll forward again after a flick of the reigns from Jorah. Drogon's eyes narrowed, turned to the wagon. "Just this once," she promised with more sympathy.

The dragons kept their eyes on the dismounting bloodriders, hissing softly and cawing to each other as they and the wagon drew closer. Daenerys and Jon held their ground and kept their eyes on the dragons. If either gave them half a chance, the dragons would fly off, and that would be the end of it. Absolute certainty－ and nothing short of it－ would hold a dragon in its place, and even then... even for _the Mother of Dragons..._ there was no guarantee. 

_My sweet thing_ , she thought lovingly, _if not for yourself, if not for me... for your brother._

Where Drogon's feet met the snowy ground, steam whisked up from between his claws. Each of his four talons was longer, and thicker, than the largest bloodrider standing below him. Rough, dull black scales ran from the base of his claws, up his bent ankle to his knee. 

The four Dothraki never looked so timid, gathered around his leg. _Good_ , she thought, _only a fool would not be afraid_. From the corner of her eye, still on Drogon's, she saw each of her bloodriders look to her one last time before they hoisted themselves up. Two stayed below, and two went up, holding one of the many long leather straps that would be fixed across Drogon.

As the riders clambered up his bent leg, Drogon arched his neck and hissed. No flames spouted from between the dripping silver of his bared teeth, but the frost that lay beneath the long, resentful _hissssssss_ melted way beneath him, to reveal long dead grass underneath.

One of the bloodriders, Vhago, slipped a bit; he almost caught himself, but fell backwards with a grunt when Drogon's head whipped around.

With a sharp hiss, Drogon's tremendous jaws snapped shut not an inch away from the man, who lay on his back in the snow. Staring up at the dragon, Vhago's eyes were as wide as they ever had been, but the rest of his face was hard fixed. 

Drogon shrieked at him, then turned back to her. Drogon roared so loudly that Daenerys felt her hair whipping against the sides of her face. The heat of his breath reminded her of the sun, drenching the Red Waste, stripping them of what little water had remained to their bodies.

The Dragon Queen did not move, nor did she fear. The calm on her face was no mask. _You will not harm me, and you will not harm them_. The bloodrider lay, stunned, in the snow a moment more, then shook his head and scrambled to his feet. Dusting himself off, Vhago glanced at her for a moment, then began to climb again, more slowly than before.

Jon watched Daenerys while she held her _impossibly_ large dragon still, and when Drogon roared at her, his jaws gaping twice as wide as she was tall, Jon took enough comfort in her calm to turn.

The smaller of the two dragons was stone-still, and _watching_ him by the time he turned. It seemed misguided to call the beast _smaller_ than anything, when the enormity of Rhaegal would make the mammoths and giants beyond the Wall look like a child's plaything. When Jon put his gaze on him, Rhaegal lowered his head and narrowed his eyes; his verdant frills twitched suspiciously, and his lip pulled up to fully bare fangs of darkened silver, as long as he was tall, and dripping with clear fluid. Where the fluid touched snow, steam hissed up.

Swallowing, Jon raised his hand to beckon the three remaining bloodriders forward: two men and a woman. The Dothraki moved slowly, sticking close to each other, and each carrying some piece of harness.

As the Dothraki hedged closer, the dragon looked away from Jon, and its jaws parted. The hiss jumped up to a sharp, rolling growl. Rhaegal lashed his great tail, flattening two trees behind him with sharp, loud _cracks_. The dragon did not as much as look back. 

Without warning, Rhaegal raised his serpentine neck, extended his wings and, lowering his head, rushed forward a few paces and let loose a terrible screech at the Dothraki. The awful cry was, without any contest, the loudest thing Jon had ever heard. Properly cowed, the Dothraki backed off a ways, and the dragon stretched his wings again, as if to take off. The beast's eyes were still fixed on him.

 _"You will stay,"_ Jon said, his voice cracking at the end.

The dragon－ _Gods_ , but he was the _biggest_ , most _fearsome_ thing Jon had ever seen－ lowered his head and screamed again, louder, while gouging at the snowy earth with his claws. Though he beat his wings wildly, his claws did not leave the ground. Small chunks of icy earth whipped Jon's face as Rhaegal reared up, roaring, before crashing back down. 

The green dragon snapped his jaws at the Dothraki. If not for the way the bloodriders dodged, all three would have disappeared inside his jaws. They backed off even further, shouting at each other, as the dragon continued his protest.

Rhaegal had opened his jaws wide and let loose a spout of flame, which Jon narrowly avoided by stepping to the side. The fire was so near and hot that it stung the skin of his face, and the fetor of burnt hair came in with Jon's next breath. All the while, Rhaegal's eyes watched him.

Desperately, Jon remembered what Daenerys had told him. _You_ must _be certain_ , she said. _To hold authority over a dragon leaves no room for doubt, Jon Snow._ Still, _she had believed_ that he could do this. Who would know better than their _Mother_ what the dragons would or would not do? 

The dragon parted his jaws again, his eyes and mouth aflame, and Jon knew there would be no dodging the flames piling up in Rhaegal's throat, spilling out the sides of his mouth. Anger took him.

 _Enough, beast!_ Jon thought, fuming. _I've not come this far, to get roasted to nothing by a dragon who is_ supposed _to be listening to_ me _!_ He drew himself up again; he had not realized his shoulders had fallen so much. _I've not time to argue with a dragon! The Night King is coming. He rides the corpse your brother left behind! Now_ _－_ "Be still!" Jon shouted. 

Rhaegal let out a long, shrill hiss while his wing beats slowed. Steadily, his enormous head came down, sliding in close with long silver fangs bared, the lip above them quivering with rage. The fangs alone were taller than Jon, and it was never more obvious than it was now, standing next to them, within reaching distance. 

As the eye of the dragon slid into his view, mere inches from his face, Rhaegal assumed a perfect stillness.

The large eye glowed like a bottomless pit of fire. Deep within the iris were swirling reds, yellows, oranges, and other colors that Jon could not name, all flickering, shifting almost imperceptibly into one other. From the narrow slit of darkness in the very center of inferno, Jon's reflection stared calmly back at him. 

Staring into the eye, Jon saw as much as _felt_ emotions greater, more powerful than he had ever thought to come from such a creature. _Rage_ , which Jon had predicted, but there was much more than that: a sense of recent, inconsolable grief, a cold and solitary fear... and a lifetime of loneliness. 

The terror and uncertainty Jon had felt not a moment ago burned away, consumed by the flames staring back at him. _Fire made flesh,_ Jon recalled. _What would the North do... how would we live, if not for fire?_ Realizing he was reaching out, Jon touched his hand to Rhaegal's face and stroked it softly. The great eye closed, the dark green frills calmed, and the dragon leaned into the embrace. Whining softly, Rhaeghal folded his wings and grew still at last.

It took about an hour, the dragons hissing all the while, but finally the _Khaleesi's_ bloodriders finished fixing the harnesses upon her children. When it was done, the Dothraki backed off quickly, and the dragons jerked upright, roared, and stretched their wings. They shook themselves head to tail before leaping into the air and taking flight.

There was not a word strong enough to describe her pride, then. Not _one_ of her bloodriders had been harmed. Casting a long-awaited look of approval at Jon, her lips parted slightly in her elation... to see him staring with love, not at _her_ , but after _Rhaegal_. 

Often, in despair, Daenerys had wondered who besides she could _ever_ love a dragon... and there he was, staring after her child with all the joy in his eyes that she felt now. Here was more proof of something that made Jon Snow _different_ , in the way that she, too, was different. The fire in her heart surged.

With long strides Daenerys closed the gap to her white mare and mounted. She turned the horse to face her bloodriders, all of whom had mounted their middling stock. 

" _Zhey Quoi qoy!_ " she began in her lowest tone. Moving her mount about them as she spoke, the _Khaleesi_ addressed the seven Riders before her in their own tongue.

"Each and every Rider who knelt to me before the Mother of Mountains, I chose as _dothrakhqoy_. All of my bloodriders who crossed the Poison Water did as no _Khal_ has done before! You have proven that you _will not be cowed_ by fear of the unknown!"

The bloodriders hollered and beat their fists upon their chests, wheeling their horses. Daenerys' white palfrey nickered and frisked before them.

"At Dragonstone, Qhono gave me one hundred names: the names of those _fiercest,_ of _all_ the Riders with the courage to cross the Poison Water! _Only you seven_ I chose to do what was done here today!" The _Khaleesi_ paused, reveling as her bloodriders hollered again.

"Before me stand the only Riders in _history_ who ever dared to saddle a _dragon_! Before me... stand the _Khalzhavorsi!_ " Dragonlords. Until now, it was a word that did not exist in Dothraki. Just as there was still no word for 'thank you' in Dothraki.

" _Quoy qoi!_ " They shouted to her, pounding their chests and wheeling their horses. " _Ma jinne m'ayyeyaan_!" Blood of my blood. Now and always.

Daenerys smiled, and a small part of her hoped that Khal Drogo was shouting the same to her, down from the Nightlands. As rough a man as her late husband was, to say the _least_... Drogo had grown gentler with her over time, in the same was as she had grown fiercer with him, and that _fierceness_ in her had loved him, before the end.

The fire in her heart burned with gratitude and pride for the men and women before her. Gratitude, for what they had done for her, and pride for what she would do for them. _Seven names of one hundred_. Each one of the seven chosen for their youth, their uncut braid, but mostly for their reputations.

Vhago, who had fallen from Drogon, was known to hunt down and slaughter men who hurt children. Khava, known as _The Woman of Many Wives,_ was known to enjoy butchering men who forced themselves upon women. Yathi had been taken slave as a child, and as a woman grown had fought her way to freedom; she now wore around her neck the finger bones of slavemasters she had cut down. Beside Yathi, her husband Tvarro, who had been with her all the while. 

Four men and three women. Each of the seven Riders before her was vicious... but to just ends. Ferocious enough to command the respect of the Dothraki... but with a savage sort of gentleness in their hearts.

Drawing herself even higher, she raised her voice again.

" _Khalzhavorsi!_ Choose any horse you wish from the _khalasar_ , it is yours. I make this gift to you! When the Great War is won... _you_ will lead the Dothraki!"

After Jon watched the bloodriders ride off at full tilt, still shouting and ululating at the top of their lungs, Jon moved his horse closer to Daenerys.

"What did you say?" he asked, sheepishly.

The Queen only smiled coyly at him as she turned her horse. Jorah answered for her, grinning as he flicked the reigns to start the empty wagon back to the Castle.

"She said thank you," Jorah said glibly as he went by. The two continued on towards Winterfell, with Daenerys in front. Jon shook his head and sniffed a laugh.

Many miles past their mother, to the South, flew the dragons. From this distance it might have been difficult to tell which was which, but Jon _knew_ , without knowing how, which one was Rhaegal. For the first time, he found himself eager to see the beasts again.

 _Much to be done before then_ , Jon decided as he mounted his black and followed after Jorah and the Queen, towards Winterfell. Far off in the Southern sky, Jon watched the dragons fly as he made for the North Gate. Listening to their calls... Jon thought it strange; once the dragons' cries had sounded like the shrieking of beasts, beautiful but terrifying... now, they sounded almost like music to him. 


	21. Blood of the Dragon (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Daenerys and Jon spend what may be their last night together. Jon makes a shocking request of his Queen. Arya recalls a memory, and makes a decision. Jorah offers his services to Daenerys._

The second night after the feast, a foreboding air lay within the stone halls of Winterfell; it had settled with the ink-dark clouds, which had crept steadily nearer for two days, and now covered the sky darkness. Not a flake of snow had yet fallen, but that could not last much longer. Noon today had been little brighter than dawn, and the evening, devoid of any glimpsing hope of moon or stars, had fallen hours early.

After a long, arduous day of orchestrating preparations for the Long Night, Daenerys found herself alone, but for the two Unsullied marching at her heels, as she retired to her chambers. Rounding the last corner, the guards behind remained at the end of the hall. At her door, the two more Unsullied rapped their spears on the stone once, then put their opposite fist to their heart.

" _A_ _o rigle nyke_ ," the Queen replied, with a smile. Every Unsullied who guarded her door honored her in this way, no matter what pair of eyes peered out from behind the visor guard. Of course she could not know the names of _all_ the men, each of whom Grey Worm had hand-chosen for her personal guard, but they each had one thing in common. Long ago their former Masters had taken their tongues, for speaking without first being spoken to. At first, Daenerys had felt a bit appalled at the notion, it hardly felt _right_ for herto take advantage of their misfortune, and she had never once doubted the loyalty of any one of the Unsullied.

Grey Worm, however, insisted that it was an honor to the men whose tongues had been taken from them. Not only did they guard her door, they would guard her secrets to their last breath. So each time they rapped their spears in greeting, she would reply, _"You honor me."_

"All is well?" The Queen asked in High Valyrian, and both Unsullied nodded. "Good," Daenerys said. "Is there anything you require?" The Unsullied, of course, could not answer her with words, but it was not _so_ difficult to understand the hand-speak they used without Missandei to translate. Daenerys managed on her own, so long as it were a simple matter: food, water, rest, warmth... In any case, their answer was the same as usual: the Unsullied shook their heads, and rapped their spears once.

Daenerys nodded. "I'll be having a guest tonight," she said casually, "Jon Snow." The two did not as much as flinch; they merely nodded again and rapped their spears once more to show their understanding.

Pushing through the door, Daenerys found herself alone. _For now_ , she thought with a soft smile. Letting her shoulders relax with a grateful sigh, she wondered how long Jon would wait before he came, and if he would offer to rub the stiffness from her neck, as he often did. If Jon did not offer, she was his _Queen_ , and if she _commanded_ him... Daenerys smiled and sniffed a laugh to herself. It was a running joke between them; all the things his Queen might command him to do, whenever they could find any time alone.

Despite the ominous air, Daenerys felt in better spirits than she had in weeks; since the last time she had lain with Jon, on the Ironborn vessel which they had sailed together from Dragonstone. That voyage had been an invaluable sanctuary for her. Her unending grief had been freshest then, and she had hardly left her cabin except to check in with her advisers, but most of them were content to meet in her chambers anyways.

Late at night, Jon would come again, alone... and those nights had become a brief haven from the endless despair of losing Viserion.

 _Rhaegal trusted him_ , Daenerys thought again, her heart fluttering as she hung her thick, silver dragon chain on a peg by the hearth. Rhaegal had let Jon _touch_ him, as she had not done in years, let Jon _command_ him... and, tomorrow, he would let Jon ride him. Despite a lifetime of surety that it would never be so... Daenerys Targaryen would not be the last dragonrider of this world.

 _I could almost wonder if his mother was a Targaryen_ , Daenerys mused, pulling the glittering dragon comb from her braids and setting it on the mantle above the fire. Recently, she had learned that all Jon knew of his mother was that the woman, whoever she was, had been in King's Landing at the time of his conception. _Though of course that's impossible_. When Ned Stark had been there, during Robert's Rebellion, only one trueborn Targaryen woman was alive, and that was her mother, Queen Rhaella. Even considering the _possibility_ of a scandal, Rhaella had been pregnant at the time, with Daenerys Stormborn herself. Still, it was _odd_... the way the dragons behaved with Jon...

A knock on the door interrupted her musings, and she turned eagerly.

"Come in." The door opened quickly, and Jon stepped through. Shutting it gently behind him, he moved over to her and scooped her off her feet. A soft, elated laugh burst from her lips. Daenerys put her hands to either side of his face and drew him in. Jon kissed her, still holding her up while he spun slowly in a circle, and Daenerys ran her hands through his black, silken hair.

"You didn't wait very long," she chastised gently when Jon finally set her down.

"No," Jon murmured into her neck, breathing her in. Feeling hot in her thick white overcoat, Daenerys tilted her head away, and Jon kissed his way down from her jaw eagerly.

"What if someone saw?" She breathed, her eyes had closed, and she was growing less concerned on the answer with each touch of his lips, each one hungrier on her neck.

"Fuck'em," Jon growled, wrapping his arms about her waist and letting his teeth brush her skin. By then, Daenerys had forgotten her third question.

Jon took she skin of her neck lightly between his teeth, his fingers sliding into the foldover of her white gown... feeling for where the first tie held it shut, pulling the first through slowly, then the next... Jon did not stop kissing her, his teeth grazing her gently here and there, while he freed her of her coat... unwrapped the silken band at her waist... his lips moved down her bare collarbone, while his hands gently freed her of the charcoal gown. And her hands were busy as well. The thin, silver shift of purest silk was all that remained of her Queenly regalia by the time she had stripped Jon of his cloak and undone the ties holding his jerkin on.

They paused only a moment here and there to breathe, and while she pulled his woolen shirt over his head and jumped into his arms, wrapping her legs about his waist. Turning, Jon set her her down gently on the bed, one hand supporting the small of her back, the other behind her neck.

By the end, she and Jon both were gasping and disheveled. After, as she lay upon his chest, gazing up into the shining darkness of his eyes, Daenerys knew if she did not say it first, that Jon would say it again. Either one of them could be dead by tomorrow night... _and he deserves to hear it first._ Leaning up on her elbow, Daenerys looked upon his face.

"I love you," she murmured. His scarred chest, bare above the furs, rose and fell slowly with his next breath. Jon sniffed and smiled, brushed his thumb gently over her cheek. "And I never thought I would love again..." she admitted. "I wish I'd said so sooner. I wish we didn't have to hide... to pretend this is wrong. Even lying for a good reason... it still makes this feel wrong, somehow."   
  


Jon looked at her a long time, just as sorry that it had to be this way, and understanding exactly what she meant. "I know it's unfair. But that'll be over soon," Jon promised. Daenerys nodded, but the smile did not touch her eyes. There was a sadness－ a fear－ there, whether she would admit it or not. _Of course she's afraid_ , Jon thought, only a fool would not fear what they would soon face. Jon rubbed a thumb over the silken skin of her hand.

"Before I met you," Jon began in a low murmur, "And after I... after the Red Woman brought me back, Daenerys, I was _lost_... I was going through the motions, giving the orders that seemed the most logical, but I... couldn't forget－ _what I_ _saw_ before the Red Woman brought me back it was... _Every day_ , I could still feel it..."

Jon could not say the words, so he put her hand over his chest, knowing the wounds there, looking fresh but for that they did not bleed, would feel cold beneath her bare fingers. Cold, dead flesh. While the rest of him lived on borrowed warmth. A second chance at life, one that Jon had never wanted... not until he met the woman who was looking at him now... looking at him like Jon himself had put the sun and stars in the sky.

Daenerys had never touched the wounds before, not directly. Jon had assumed she would look horrified, as he had the first time he had felt the chill of them. Instead, she lowered her lips to his chest, and kissed each one softly. A warmth spread into his chest. When she was done, Jon put his fingers gently under her chin, and gazed deep into her eyes. Jon smiled. "And _I_ _never_ thought... Daenerys... you are all that is light and good in my life," he finished, as if it were simple. _Gods... her smile._

"You are my Queen," Jon went on. "And if you would have me... I will be your King."  
  


The question hung in the air, and Daenerys did not realize she was crying until Jon smiled, brushing his thumb over the wet on her cheek. _How could he mean that?_ The North was his _home_. Everyone who knew Jon Snow knew that, as surely as they knew his name.

"You know I can't stay in the North forever," she said, her voice quivering.

"I know," Jon said, and his smile faded. "I was born in the North... but I _died_ here, too. The more time I spend here, now... the less it feels like home to me." Jon cupped her face in his hands. "The more _you_ feel like _home_ to me."

"You're sure?" Daenerys asked, an unfamiliar waver in her voice. That question was, perhaps, the closest thing to doubt that she had felt in years, yet... All the things Jon said, she _felt_. How terrifying it had been for her at first, to realize that Jon had become the family she imagined behind the red door... the door she had dreamed of since she was a girl. Still, she had to ask. If Jon asked this of her, and then shied away when the time came to leave the North...

Jon laughed in a breathy way, but his voice was solemn when he spoke. "I would marry you tonight, if you would come to the Godswood with me."

An astonished smile took her face, and at the mention of the Godswood. Daenerys put a hand over her mouth and _laughed_ _－_ like she had not done in years－ remembering the promise she had made to herself the night before: the next time Jon invited her to the Godswood, she would say yes.

_It cannot be so simple as that..._

"What about witnesses?" Daenerys scoffed, grinning. "An officiate?"

"Arya can officiate," Jon replied, leaning forward and taking her hand in his, a wild grin on his face. "I told you she already guessed about us, and she likes you. She might not admit it yet, but I _know_ she does. With Sansa gone, and Bran... unwilling, Arya is the Stark in Winterfell. By Northern law, all you'd need is to someone with authority to give you away... And, of course," Jon added softly, raising her hand to his lips, "the bride's permission?"

Daenerys narrowed her eyes, a yet-skeptical smile on her lips. "You're serious?" Jon nodded. The fire in her heart pulsed, as it had every time she found herself committing to something with reckless impulsion, and absolute surety... and Daenerys stood. "Very well," she said. The furs fell off her naked form. "I believe I'll need to dress a bit warmer than this."  
  


"Have you seen Arya?" Jon asked a man－ a man who was Arya Stark herself－ though all her brother saw was the face of another Northman shrugging him off, with a mumble of how his sister had hardly been seen since her return. Jon moved on to the next one, then the next. By the time her brother had huffed in frustration and left the feast hall, a girl had slipped a man's face into her bag, shrugged off the cloak of a Stark soldier... and Arya Stark rounded the same corner of the empty hall that Jon did, from the opposite direction.

"I heard you were looking for me," Arya said, and Jon laughed, and pulled her in suddenly for a hug. "Why are you happy?" she asked suspiciously. There was a wild light in her brother's eyes. A radiance about him that Arya had never seen. Jon released her from the hug, but kept his hands on her shoulders.

"I need to ask you..." Jon began, ducking his head a moment. " _Gods_ , I know it sounds mad, but... Arya, I need you to officiate a wedding. I'm going to marry her," Jon smiled, and there was not a scrap of doubt in her brother's voice. "Tonight, in the Godswood."

"You're joking," Arya said, then shook her head before Jon had the chance. "You're _not_ joking..."

It was not as much the wedding that surprised her, but the timing of it. For some time now, one of her faces or another had watched Jon Snow and his Queen.

Jon Snow was, without any doubt, still Arya Stark's brother... but he was not the same boy that Arya Stark remembered. The change in him was great, and deeper than she could understand, but he was still _him_. Just as _a girl_ was still Arya Stark, beneath her many faces... Jon and his Queen were lying to everyone, but in doing so, they had made the preparations for the Great War seem almost seamless. Something that some of the Northern soldiers－ grumbling among themselves while a girl listened through a man's ears－ were begrudgingly appreciative of. That, and the near-endless supply of food the Queen had brought with her...

But Jon was not marrying the Queen for her _political status_ , nor for her armies, nor for her resources; that much was plain on her brother's face. Now, and in every brief moment that a girl had watched the two interact alone. The love between them seemed as honest as the Queen herself had been, when Arya Stark had confronted her during the feast.

After everything a girl had learned, watching them, and everything Arya Stark knew about Jon Snow... _of course Jon wants to marry the Dragon Queen..._

All at once, a memory struck her. Something a girl's brother told her once, long ago... when Jon Snow had received his first real sword from their father... The first sword Arya Stark had ever held.

_Late in the night, on his thirteenth name-day, Jon sat in the chair in Arya's bedroom, with the sword over his knees. Jon grinned at her, his hairless face dimpling at the cheeks. Through the gaps of her missing front teeth, Arya promised her oldest brother three times over she that would be careful. When Jon finally passed the long, shining steel sword to her, Arya cursed to realize she was too weak to raise the tip of the blade more than an inch off the floor, even with both hands on the pommel._

_Jon laughed, and took the long sword back carefully. "It's called a bastard blade," he told her._

_"Is that because it's yours, and you're a bastard?" Arya asked curiously, her tongue struggling with the 's' through the gap in her teeth._

_Her brother's face fell a bit. Arya frowned. The concept of a bastard was still new to her, and she had questioned Maester Lewin rigorously, but it had seemed no less unfair to her even after all her questions were answered. It certainly did not seem to be something her brother liked hearing about himself. "Maester Lewin told me that father could give the Stark name. Or King Robert could."_

_Jon frowned, shrugged. "I think father would've done it already," he said sadly. "And I would hope that King Robert_ _has better things to do," he added with a grin._

_Arya pursed her lips, and ran her tongue through the gap in her teeth thoughtfully. "You could marry a Queen!" she piped excitedly. "Maester Lewin says if a bastard marries a Queen, he takes her House as his own."_

_"What sort of Queen would marry a bastard?" Jon asked with a dry laugh, but Arya could see the glumness on his face. She thought hard before she answered._

_"The kind that cares more about the good in people than fancy titles!" Arya said defiantly, satisfied with her answer, if not for the way her 's' stuck in her mouth._

_Jon laughed, and Arya was glad to see the sadness finally recede from his face. "Well, then, if I'm to marry a Queen... she'd better be a Warrior Queen," Jon said, flourishing his new blade and inciting a rolling giggle from his young sister..._

The memory faded, and Jon grimaced at her long, thoughtful pause. "Look, I know you only met just met Daenerys but..."

"I'll do it," Arya said. Jon gaped at her. "I like her," Arya explained. "She's honest."

That much was true. And married or not, a girl supposed she could still slip a knife into the Dragon Queen, _if_ the Queen gave a girl any reason to. If that time came, it would suit a girl's needs that her brother was so close to the woman.

Jon stared at her as if he could not believe it, shook his head, and laughed. Her brother lifted her up in a hug, and when he set her back down, his hands rested on her shoulders, and his dark eyes were glistening. "I knew you'd understand," Jon whispered.

A slight grin took her face, just to see her brother look so happy. "Who will give her away?" Arya asked.  
  


Ser Jorah had nearly undressed, save his breeches and boots, when the soft knock came on his door. When he opened it, Ser Jorah had expected to see another soldier, not _the Queen_ on the other side, not this time of night.

" _Khaleesi_ ," Jorah greeted, surprised.

"Oh," the Queen said, to see him bare-chested when the door opened. Jorah began to offer apologies, but she waved him off. "... May I come in?"

"Of course," Jorah opened the door, and shut it behind her. The two Unsullied at her heels waited outside the closed door. The Queen stood before the hearth, in her warm white gown, Jorah noticed, with her hands clasped in front of her.

"I wanted to ask something of you..." Daenerys began, while Jorah slipped a smallshirt over his head, "only... I'm not sure it's right of me, to ask..." she finished softly, casting a glance at him. When his smallshirt was tucked in, Jorah pulled into his long, dark woolen coat, and replied while he fixed the ties in place.

"You won't know until you ask," Jorah supposed with a dry grin. "Allow me the _chance_ to serve you, at least," he said as encouragingly as he could.

"I don't believe there's anyone else I _could_ ask," Daenerys hedged, and Jorah waited with quiet patience while she hesitated. "To... give me away, on the night of my wedding?"

His brow furrowed, and Jorah cast his eyes down. Ser Jorah could not say as to what he had guessed the Queen would ask, but _this_ had not touched his wildest imaginings... though he supposed it should have. Not a word of suspicion had escaped his lips, but as much time as Jorah spent watching _her..._ he could not help but notice the way Daenerys looked at _him..._

"Jon Snow," Jorah supposed raising his eyes a moment, and his Queen nodded with a timid smile on her face. Dropping his eyes again, he sniffed a laugh－ which he prayed did not come across rueful－ and raised his gaze again. "He's a good man," Jorah commended, and his Queen nodded, her eyes full, and begging an answer from him. It came easily to his lips. "It would be my honor," he said thickly.

"You're sure?" she asked, taking a step closer. There were tears glittering faintly in her eyes. Jorah nodded, and buried the sadness in his heart beneath the joy on her face. Of course he was sure...

"I've never seen you look so lonely," Jorah explained, "as you were the day you married Khal Drogo. Then again, in Meereen, when you sat beside Hizdar... It broke my heart to think you would give your vows to a man you did not love, who did not love you..." he looked at his feet, smiled, and raised his eyes.

"But to see you wed for love..." It did not matter to him then, that it was not _his_ love. No matter how he felt, the Queen deserved a better, and younger man than him. It had been something that Ser Jorah－ the former slaver, the exiled Knight and utterly disgraced former Lord of Bear Island－ had known from the first. There were tears in his eyes when Jorah finally said, "...it would bring me great joy, _Khaleesi_."

His Queen crossed the few steps to him and slid her arms about his waist. Jorah held her close, until the moment she began to pull away. " _Thank you,_ " she whispered, then swallowed. "How soon can you be ready?"

Jorah reached over, without moving his feet, and pulled his cloak off the peg. After settling it over his shoulders, he gestured to himself, fully dressed in his usual Northern finery: woolen charcoal, fur, and leather garb, though he wore none of his armor, ceremonial or otherwise. "If this will suit for wear," Jorah said, grinning.

Daenerys nodded, and laughed softly with the tears still in her eyes, and Jorah offered her his arm. Beaming, Daenerys slipped hers through it. With his free hand, he opened the first door for her, and the next one, at the end of the hall, and then the third and final door, to the Godswood. As they walked, the former Lord of Bear Island spoke softly, informing his Queen of what she should expect from a Northern marriage ceremony.   
  


The silent darkness of midnight in the Godswood was a different world, beyond the open door. Only the flickering of a few candles set just outside－ nestled in the snow, the wax hardly yet touched by the flame－ said that others were waiting somewhere in the darkness. Somewhere, down the candlelit path through the snowy wood, Jon was waiting for her at the base of the Weirwood tree.

Arm-in-arm, Ser Jorah led her through the door, and down the path. Alternating sides every few paces, another few candles set in the snow, flickering slightly despite the windbreak that the walls and dense, snowy wood provided.

The winter-quiet of it all was interrupted only by the soft whistling of the North wind, and then, as the light cast by the first few candles vanished to the dark woods behind her, by the distant howling of wolves.

The darkness all around the snowy path was punctuated only by candlelight, and the barest outlines of branches above them. It all seemed strangely surreal: a dim, snowy, wooded tunnel of light and beauty, enveloped by a shroud of darkness. The Godswood would be bathed in the light of the moon, if not for the dark wall of clouds that lay between the trees and the sky above. Another cluster of candles passed her by, and the last slight curve in the path fell behind her.

When she laid eyes on the Weirwood, each of the dragons cried once, somewhere in the darkness beyond. As if in reply, more howls joined the wolfsong.

Daenerys' heart raced to see the Weirwood, and at its base, at least two dozen candles flickering, pushing back against the darkness. Illuminated by the candlelight, beneath low, bone-white boughs tipped with trembling red leaves, Jon waited just in front of his younger sister. The two stood, as Jorah said, "in sight of the Old Gods," just before the ageless red face, carved into the pale trunk of the Weirwood tree by the Children of the Forest, timeless centuries ago...

Both were dressed in fine furs: Jon in black and silver, and Arya in beige and brown. Daenerys noticed with a smile that he had combed his unruly black hair, and pulled it back behind his neck. It was all so strange and beautiful, and _sudden_. 

Daenerys only wished Missandei could have been here. In her absence, she had done the braids in her silver hair by herself, quickly; one simple braid to either side, lacing into each other at the back, and fixed behind her neck with a silver clip. The rest of her hair hung loose, cascading down to the small of her back. As it happened, it was a fairly traditional Northern braid.

"Who comes before the Old Gods, this night?" Arya asked with gravitas when Daenerys and Jorah, arm-in-arm, took the last few steps forward.

"Queen Daenerys, of House Targaryen," Jorah answered for her, as was the custom in the North, "comes here to be wed." Looking up at her Knight, Daenerys saw his eyes brimming with pride. "A woman grown, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessing of the Old Gods. Who comes to claim her?"

"Jon Snow," her betrothed said softly, stepping forward. "Bastard of Winterfell, named King in the North... Who gives her?"

"Ser Jorah, of House Mormont," her Knight answered. "First sword to the Queen, General to her armies... and blood of her blood," he finished thickly. Daenerys smiled, remembering the day Jorah had pledged himself as such, the day she had emerged, Unburnt, from the smoking pyre... her first, and most loyal bloodrider.

"Queen Daenerys," Arya said, pulling her eyes for a moment. "Do you take this man?" Arya turned to Jon as she asked. Daenerys felt her eyes widen; Jorah had said to expect _brevity_ from the ceremony, but...

Looking up and left, to Jorah, she saw her Knight beaming down at her. Returning the smile, Daenerys slipped her left hand from his arm, and offered it to Jon. He took it gently, and with a last, final step, Daenerys came to stand with Jon, in sight of the Old Gods.

The darkness in Jon's eyes glittered in the flickering candlelight, crinkling fondly at the edges, and she smiled. "I do," Daenerys vowed softly. It was still hard to believe it had all happened... and now, it was done.

The hand Daenerys had offered to her husband－ _her King_ _－_ was still in his. Jon Targaryen, the First of His Name, set his other hand gently below her jaw, and kissed her with all the softness of the gently falling snow, thick and sudden, from the coal-dark sky above.


	22. Here We Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _On the final dawn before the Long Night, Lyanna Mormont forces Ser Jorah to confront his past. Daenerys dons the garb of a warrior Queen, shares a word with Ser Jorah, and stands by Jon's side at the final summit of the Captains. The Red Woman arrives to Winterfell._

**Here We Stand**

On the third morning, Lyanna Mormont could scarcely see the darkened dawn, rising only in theory behind the saturnine clouds gathered over Winterfell. For the last two days the wind had gained strength, while the sky called out fair warning of the storm to come: dazzling, distracting displays as a peaceful stillness, a red morning, a yellow eve. Now there was only darkness in the sky. Darkness, and snow.

The wind shrieked mercilessly, pouring over the battlements. Thick, icy flakes rushed about, without pause or mercy, and the Lady Mormont of Bear Island watched the Eastern sky, with some small hope that she might glimpse some light from the sun. It seemed silly, girlish even, to waste any time watching the sun rise, but the Lady Mormont had always found beauty in sunrises. Many times she remembered watched morning arise over the Bay of Ice, her mother by her side. Those quiet dawns had brought her peace.

The dragons were nowhere to be seen, which meant in these screaming winds that they could be anywhere, but Lyanna thought East. The wind drowned out any sounds of their quiet calls, but the last few days, she had noticed the great beasts of legend followed the arcing sun. In the mornings, they sang North and East, in the evenings South and West. Of dragons, Lyanna had read a legend once, that long ago, there had once been two moons in the sky. One moon cracked, and a thousand dragons poured out, and they drank the sun's fire... Wondrous beasts, and more elusive than she had expected; Lyanna had hoped to catch a glimpse of them with the sun.

Watching this sunrise, if it could even be called that, proved to be as grim as it was girlish. Shortly after she had come, Lyanna turned, and a half dozen steps brought her to a door that led inside. Down the stairs she walked, then through a long and empty hallway.

The black leathers and furs she wore over Bear Island chainmail swished lightly in the empty quiet. The hall was well-lit, with a set of braziers every ten paces or so, offering a strange, almost sweltering warmth and brightness compared to the frigid darkness that lay just outside the Castle. Halfway down the long hall, she turned a corner. There, at the end of the short entrance way, two Unsullied stood to either side of the door to the war room. The former slaves were an unmistakably different sort from the Northmen to whom Lyanna was used, but they shared some appreciable similarities. Lady Mormont was especially fond of their directness.

"Who comes?" One of the brown-clad men asked through his visor guard.

"Lady Lyanna of House Mormont, for Jorah Mormont."

The Unsullied looked at each other, and the one who had spoken first nodded sharply, opened the door and led her through. Inside the war room, Ser Jorah, alone, was bent over the war table, studying a large map of the area, covered with charcoal scrawlings. Lyanna did not need to study the map to know it was the battle strategy; it had been in constant revision since Jon Snow had returned... and it was not the reason she was here.

When the guard announced her, Jorah's gaze snapped up, and he straightened. The disgraced man looked at her with a furrowed brow, nodded to the guard, who then returned through the same door. Lady Mormont would not speak first.

_Let him decide how to face his own past..._

"My Lady," Ser Jorah began, bowing deeply. The man seemed unable to meet her eye for more than a few moments. "Forgive me, I... did not seek you out. I did not expect you would want to speak to me."

"I would speak to you alone. Without any interruptions." Lady Mormont stated. Of course, there was no need to specify who might intrude upon them.

Jorah cast his eyes down, then met hers when he spoke. "Apologies, my Lady, but... I cannot bar my Queen entry, if she wishes it. Though I do not expect her for a while, yet."

Lyanna stared at him a moment. "At least then, you have learned _something_ of loyalty," she spat. 

The _former_ Lord of Bear Island averted his gaze again, and spoke no word in his defense. Lyanna pressed on, letting free, at last, all the hatred she felt for the man.

"Your father," she snapped, "joined the Night's Watch of his own free will, and handed you Bear Island. As the Lord of Bear Island, you _pissed away_ our fortunes on your wife, a _miserly_ Southerner. When there was nothing left, you sold Northern poachers into _slavery_ , until you were caught, and stripped of your lordship. Ned Stark was to behead you for your crimes, and you fled across the Narrow Sea... There, in Essos, you swore yourself to the _Breaker of Chains_..." Lyanna stopped, but Jorah did not as much as look up, and the loaded silence went unbroken until she went on, angrier with every word. "Are you redeemed then, Ser Jorah? Have the valiant deeds of your new Queen freed you of all your guilt?"

The man was quiet for a while, with his head down, until at last he met her eyes. There was no mistaking the pain in them.

"My father," Jorah began thickly, "was the greatest man I've ever known... and I betrayed him. He carried the weight of my failures to his dying breath. I know he did... And so will I. For all the grace of her Majesty, even Daenerys Stormborn could never free me of my guilt." Lyanna stared, and Jorah was quiet for a few moments, then raised his eyes when he finished. "But each time I act on my Queen's orders... I almost feel worthy of the second chance she gave me."

Lady Lyanna weighed his words against her wrath. If not for _Jorah_ , her mother would not have had to sacrifice all that time, in effort to recoup his damage. If not for _Jorah_ , Lyanna might have been able to remain a child a few years more. A child... with a mother to guide and protect her, and watch the sun rise with her. If not for _Jorah_ , her mother would not have marched off to lead, and fight, and die in Robb Stark's war.

 _It should have been him to die in that war_ , Lyanna thought, nearly every day since that wretched letter had arrived. _Him, not her._ The day Lady Maege Mormont had left Bear Island, Lyanna had clung to her mother's jerkin, terrified.

 _"What if you don't come back?"_ _Lyanna asked, with tears trailing down her face. Her mother, in all her armor, dropped to a knee and put her mailed hands on her daughter's shoulders._

" _Then first, you will quit your weeping!" Lady Maege gruffed, shaking her a bit. Lyanna nodded, and raised her chin a bit higher, fighting the tears back. Then, as it rarely did, her mother's voice softened, and Maege brushed a gloved finger across Lyanna's wet cheek. "And then... you will trust your gut first, and your counselors first after that."_

Concerning Ser Jorah Mormont's return to the North, her counselors had advised everything from a public denaming, to demanding the very execution Ned Stark had ordered years ago. It made little matter to her men, it seemed, that Jorah was here on the Dragon Queen's authority, not theirs, and not the North's. Yet, as she regarded Jorah now, her _gut_ told her something that her counselors had failed to say.

All the stories she had been told of Ser Jorah－ the Slaver, the _piss-poor_ excuse for a Bear Islander, the man who nearly _ruined_ House Mormont－ those words did not describe the man that stood before her now. And as much as Lyanna had the right to blame Jorah for his failures, to hate him even, for all that she had lost as a result of those failures... if a ruler could not hope that her people would _choose_ to be better... If a ruler would not give them the chance, at least to try...

The decision before her, standing eye-to-eye with Ser Jorah on the final dawn before the Great War; it gave her a new understanding of their House words.

_Here We Stand..._

Lady Mormont had thought much on those words recently, and had decided at the first summit that if all those who yet lived could not find a way to stand together, the army of the dead would make corpses of them all. _What difference does a title make, to a corpse?_

"I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, cousin," Lyanna said finally. Resolved that, one way or another, it would be the last thing she ever said to the man. She turned and left before Jorah could get more than halfway into a gracious bow.

Though she ignored his bow, Jorah did not rise again, not until the door had closed behind her. When Lyanna was gone, the some of the dread had eased, of waking to a morning darker than the twilight before.

 _There is no doubt that was Maege's daughter_ , Jorah thought with a wistful smile. His little sister, Lyanna's mother, had always been as shrewd as she was severe. Unlike himself, Maege had always known what the right thing was, and the _She-Bear_ could be counted on to charge, roaring at anyone dull enough to disagree with her. Jorah smiled sadly, missing his sister, and glad to see her ferocity had not been lost to the world, after all.

 _Likely I'll be meeting Maege again, soon enough,_ Jorah thought. As a military man, and having seen the army of the dead for himself... he knew the odds of survival for any given man who would fight in the Long Night. A half a chance, if that.

Everything was ready for the final summit with the Captains. Soon, they would convene around the war table and finalize, with as much certainty as they could muster, their strategy in the battle to come. As quickly as possible, the Captains would be dismissed to meet the commanders. The commanders, in turn, would hear their orders as many times as was necessary before they could recite them back, word-for-word. They would then do the same for the men beneath them, and so on. Yet despite all the rush, Ser Jorah had found himself with a few minutes to spare before the final summit.

Jorah pulled the small Meereenese copper coin from under the leathers about his wrist. Stamped upon the coin, the pointed wings and cruel talons of the harpy turned over in his hand, and he ran his thumb over the great pyramid etched into the other side. Of course, the mark was more than mere currency to him.

The coin was a token of the kinship between two exiles; a Northern Lord and a royal dwarf, both with a death sentence over their heads; both sworn to live and die for the same cause. When the two had been enslaved together, their short-lived Master had given it to them as their "payment," for their glory in the fighting pits of Meereen; it had been meant to last the rest of their lives. Tyrion had given the coin to him when he went North of the Wall, with orders to bring it back, and Jorah had held on to it since.

Suddenly, Jorah closed the coin in his hand and made for the door. Some of the others might be gathered by the time he returned, but there was time enough for a hurried trip down the hallway and back.

By the Queen's order, every brazier in Winterfell was burning day and night, giving the hallway a brightness that contrasted sharply with the darkness in the windows. Tyrion would have arrived at Castle Cerwyn yesterday morning, with the others, so his quarters would be empty.

Pushing open the thick wooden door, Jorah made his way to the head of Tyrion's bed and set the Meereenese coin atop his pillow. If he survived the Night, he could always reclaim it... but it had made him sad to think the coin might be lost in the battle. 

When he returned to the war room, his Queen stood alone over the table, studying the plans spread before her. " _Khaleesi_ ," he greeted, earning a weak smile from her as she straightened. Carefully, he hid his appreciation for her new gown, despite that Jorah had been the one to have it made for her.

The armored gown was made by one of the most talented craftswomen in Essos. The former Meereenese slave, who had chosen the name Kiera after her liberation, was raised and trained in Tyrosh. One of the Free Cities, best known for its colorful dyes and renowned armorsmiths. The Tyroshi, an equally gifted smith as she was a seamstress, had been one of the Queen's many callers after she freed Meereen, to offer her the first of many gowns.

The garb the Queen wore today, Jorah had requested specially from Kiera, and he had the usual difficulties in paying the woman for her efforts. _"M_ _ēr rīgle,"_ Kiere had insisted three times in the bastard Valyrian of Tyrosh, waving him off heartily each time. _"My honor."_ Finally, Ser Jorah relented, though he spent the very coin he would have given her on an order of raw metals, silk, and leather, which had later been delivered to Kiera. The Tyroshi had offered her so many gowns, that eventually the Queen commanded Jorah find _some_ way to pay the woman.

The high-cut bodice of Daenerys' gown was steel chainmail, near silver in color and polished to gleaming. From shoulder to wrist the mail was covered over by sleeves of soft grey suede, matching the skirts. Daenerys' shoulders and throat were protected with a pauldron and gorget of hardened leather, covered over both sides with dark wool. Around her narrow waist, a belt of dark leather, with an obsidian dagger sheathed upon either hip. Hanging from the silver dragon chain at her shoulder, a scaled half-cape, colored to the blue-white of dawn.

Jorah smiled at his boots to see his _Khaleesi_ in blue again; he had spent near an hour choosing the right shade from Kiera's stock. "Does it fit well?" Jorah asked.

"Kiera has outdone herself," Daenerys replied with a knowing smile. There was no doubt that this was her work, but Kiera _always_ hand-delivered her gowns. This one, Daenerys had found lain out in her chambers this morning, with not even a note to go with it. The garb was heavier than she was used, especially the thick glass daggers, but it was warm and strong, and did nothing to limit her movements. It would suit her well, in the battle to come. The smile on her face dimmed.

"Are we ready?" Daenerys asked softly, knowing her Knight would speak the whole truth in his reply.

Ser Jorah gave her a hopeful smile. "As we could ever be," he affirmed, and Daenerys nodded with what she hoped was confidence. " _Khaleesi_..." Jorah began. "If I don't survive the Night－"

" _No,_ " she insisted, stepping forward and shaking her head. Ser Jorah's role in the Long Night was with the soldiers on the ground, and hers was with Jon, in the sky. This summit would be the last they would see of each other, before the dawn.

"No more farewells," Daenerys said firmly, and smiled.

The man who had been by her side since she was a child, who had given her away last night, beneath the Godswood... Jorah cast his eyes down, grinning. "No more farewells," he agreed, raising his gaze again.

The door opened, and Jon walked through, in his usual black leathers and gray furs. Ser Jorah stepped back as Jon moved to her side, and she did her best not to look too long at her King, while the others: Grey Worm, Qhono, Tormund, and Ser Brienne, streamed in almost on each others heels.

If today was to be his last, Jon was happy that he would spend it with her. His Queen; _His wife..._ Especially considering the new gown that she wore. The glittering chainmail and grey leathers, and he had never before seen Daenerys in blue...

"Your Grace," Jon greeted respectfully, trying not to look like he was leering, while he took the place by her side. Daenerys offered him a glance that lingered only a heartbeat too long, before the polite nod she gave in return. "Ser Jorah," Jon added in the same tone, and he greeted each of the others the same way, as they began to stream through the door.

When everyone was gathered around the war table, Jon found every pair of eyes in the room fixed upon him. Any inspiring words of hope that he might have said failed him.

"Thank you all for coming," Jon began, meeting each pair of nervous eyes with his own. Then he moved his attention to the large, detailed map of the grounds spread out below. Three concentric rings had been drawn around Castle Winterfell; the Castle itself was centered in the innermost, and thickest circle.

As the eyes around him moved to the map below, Jon went on. "Our advantage, as you all know, is fire."

As the flames had foretold long go, the Red Woman Melisandre stood before the closed gate of Winterfell at high noon, dressed in robes of brown and mounted atop a horse as dark as the sky above. Icy snow beset her from all sides, the North Wind whipping it to a frenzy, shrieking all the while.

As the Red Woman had ridden North, to stand before the gates, she had passed other _glimpses of the flame_ : a great force amassed outside the walls of Winterfell, the first vision she had seen of the Great War. The flames had once shown her a great victory at Winterfell... and death. 

_Only death pays for life,_ she thought, _that much, at least, is certain._

The thick brown hood of her cloak fell back as Melisandre turned her face up to the sky, eyes fixed on the gatehouse.

"Halt!" The Northern guard shouted down at her from the battlements, his voice dim compared to the scream of the wind. "Who goes?"

"I have come to offer aid in the Great War," Melisandre answered honestly, for the Lord of Light would not allow a lie to pass her lips. The ruby fixed in the golden collar around her throat would allow the Red Priestess to do many things, but never to lie outright. _Not knowingly, at least..._

The guard turned, and gave the order, and the gates opened before her; just enough for her horse to pass through, before they began to close again. Once inside the walls, no one payed her any mind at all. Cloaked in brown robes, Melisandre moved her black steed into the bustling throng of soldiers, heading for the North Gate. That was where they would be.

Like drops of water past riverstone, soldiers parted around her without pause or interruption. Each soldier marched dutifully, to whatever position their commanders had ordered them. For four hundred long years, the Lady Melisandre had lived, and yet the irony was not lost to her: in the end, she was no different from any one of them.

The North Gate stood closed ahead. Before it, Daenerys Targaryen was mounted atop a mare of glittering white, surrounded by a small guard of Unsullied. Jon was not with his Queen, but he would come. Halting her horse, the Red Woman dismounted, approaching the Queen's guard with slow and certain strides, her brown hood still covering much of her visage. The Dragon Queen, conversing with one of her many Dothraki commanders, payed her no mind.

"Who comes?" One of the Unsullied asked of her. Melisandre gave her answer loudly and clearly, in High Valyrian.

"This one is called Melisandre," she said, pushing back her brown hood. Underneath, the rich red of her hair hung to one side, in a thick braid that disappeared into her brown robes.

The High Valyrian, or perhaps the name, caught the Queen's attention.

For a moment, Daenerys was surprised to see the Red Priestess, here and now, of all places and times. Then, she recalled what had brought the Lady Melisandre to seek her out at Dragonstone in the first place. 

_Bosys bantis amāzis,_ the Red Priestess had told her; _the Long Night is coming_.

Urging her white mare forward a few paces－ the Unsullied moved aside with no need for her command－ Daenerys dismounted directly next to the Red Woman. The Priestess spoke without hesitation, still in High Valyrian.

"You are ever burdened, my Queen," the Red Woman began, bowing her head. "I will not waste your time. I come to ask your leave, to fight with the living, in the Great War."

" _You!_ "

Daenerys turned and saw Jon dismounting his great black destrier. Daenerys had not seen him arrive, nor had she ever seen him looking so angry. Without pause, Jon seized the Red Priestess by the front of her robes. The Red Woman stared calmly back.

"I banished you!" Jon growled. "A mercy you did not deserve... I told you that I would have you _hanged as a murderer_ if you ever returned to the North!" Jon would have been shouting, if not for his hushed tone; his face was inches from the Red Woman's cool stare.

"Why?" Daenerys asked quickly. Trusting her King, and his judgment, did not change the gratitude she felt towards the Red Priestess, without whom Daenerys might never have met Jon; without whom, Jon would not even be _alive_. Her husband turned to face her, without loosening his grip on the Red Woman.

Jon did not bother to wonder why the Queen looked so concerned for the fate of a murderer, for a user of blood magic, for the Red Witch who had _ripped him away from death_. Attempting to calm some of his cold rage, he moderated his tone.

"This woman burned a child alive. She burned Mance Rayder alive. The Gods only know how many other innocent people she's burned." _And she left me with a wound in my heart that will never heal,_ Jon thought, agonizing. There would be no forgetting for him, the inky, black nothingness that he had seen in death... Unable to calm his words any longer, Jon turned his attention back to the Priestess, who looked unruffled, serene even. "She sacrificed them like lambs, as offerings to her Fire God!"

"Mistakes, all," the Red Woman asserted. "For which I will die before the Dawn," she said, perfectly composed. For a moment, Jon could not find his words.

"That changes _nothing_ ," Jon growled, shaking her slightly.

" _Everything_ changes, Jon Snow," the Red Woman replied, her eyes widening and her voice gaining strength. "Seasons, continents. Houses, and names. Men and women..." The great red gem around her throat began to glow before his eyes. " _Even Gods_."

Suddenly, Jon felt as though his hands were plunged into a burning forgefire. Jon released his grip on her robes, shook his hands, and the burning sensation vanished. When he looked, his gloves were not even singed.

"It is not for you to decide," the Red Woman declared simply, returning her attention to the Queen. "With your leave, my Queen, I will give my life to serve my Lord's cause, and bring what light I can to the darkness." His wife turned a pained look from him, back to the Red Woman.

"If what he says is true," Daenerys began softly, then I cannot allow you to live... even if you should survive the Night."

The Priestess smiled widely, as one might when hearing a joke. " _Valar morghulis,_ " Melisandre said with a curtsy and a deep bow.

" _Valar dohaeris,_ " Daenerys replied.

_Yes,_ Melisandre thought as she rose, glancing at Jon. _All men must serve._ Without another word, Melisandre brushed past him and mounted again her black steed. With a last look at Jon Snow, the Red Witch wondered if he had been yet named as Jon Targaryen, as the flames had shown he would, standing beneath the Weirwood. With a nod, and smile, Melisandre urged her horse past him. "Fight well, Jon Snow, for the night is dark, and full of terrors."

The Red Woman rode off at a walk. Next, she would find Lord Beric Dondarrion, who unknowingly awaited her in the Craftmen's Alley. It would be a relief to converse again, with a true and faithful servant of the Lord of Light.

While she rode, past the first few forges, Melisandre caught a glimpse; something the flames had shown her long ago. A dappled grey horse frisking just ahead of her; she halted her own mount to wait. When the gray moved aside, Arya Stark stood, her hands folded behind, watching her. Melisandre smiled. "I told you we would meet again."

"You did," the wolf girl said. "You told me there was darkness in me, that I'd shut many eyes forever."

The Red Woman smiled. "And so you have done. A girl has learned much."

The wolf girl nodded, subtly flourishing a small, weighted blade in her hand. "Can you give me a good reason not to shut your eyes?"

"Can you tell me why you would?" Melisandre returned.

"I think you're evil," Arya replied simply. "So does my brother."

"Tell me," Melisandre said. "Does a girl truly believe, as I once did, that good and evil are as Black and White?" 

The girl stared, unblinking, and the Red Woman smiled. "I assure you, Arya Stark, I have seen my fate, as it comes with the gathering darkness. As the the Lord of Light demands, I _will_ die this Night... but not by a blade." The girl stared darkly at her, and Melisandre moved her horse past the wolf girl without looking back.

Melisandre found Beric Dondarrion by the larger forges, testing the weight of the thick, weighty obsidian dagger in his hand. The patch over his eye obscured her from his sight as she approached, and he did not see her until she spoke.

"You will find no use for that," Melisandre said, gesturing to his dagger when Beric turned to her.

"Lady Melisandre," Beric said, nodding surprised respect. "I've no doubt you're right... but you must forgive me that tonight, I would rather carry a blade I don't need," Beric tucked the dagger in his belt and grinned, "than need a blade I don't carry."

A dry smile played at her crimson lips; it faded quickly. "I am sorry about Thoros. He was a good man." That much was true, even if Thoros of Myr had also been an utter disgrace to Red Priesthood.

Beric smiled sadly, his sole eye crinkling at the edges. "Thoros was a drunk, and a madman... He was my best friend."

"As the Lord of Light willed him to be," Melisandre replied, pulling Beric's attention from from the past. Taking a step forward, she held his eye with both of hers. "Long have you wondered on his purpose for _you_ ," she intoned. She turned her gaze from the man before her to the white-hot flames of the nearby forge. "I have seen your purpose... R'hollor has shown me what you must do." The ruby at her throat, one of the very last Tears of R'hollor remaining to this world, began to pulse, while the flames danced in her eyes.

Melisandre could feel the warmth of the flames, even five paces away. Like the soft lips of many lovers, the Lord's fire kissed her face in a loving, welcoming embrace. All at once the forgefire shuddered and pulsed, and showed their loyal servant what she had seen before, only clearer now, more near... more certain. The glorious destiny of Beric Dondarrion. Whatever the Red Woman must do to ensure it, she would do without hesitation.

"What does The Lord of Light command of me, my Lady?" Beric asked dutifully. Pulling her gaze from the flame, Melisandre knew her eyes must have held all the power of fire, for the way Beric met them. The look upon his face was as hers, when she looked to the flame.

"You must keep me alive," Melisandre replied knowingly, casting her eyes to the sullen sky. A great smile took her face, watching the dragons and their riders fly higher and higher, disappearing above the ink-dark clouds. 


	23. Dragons and Wolves (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _For the first time, with his Queen at his side, Jon sees the world as the dragon does. The Long Night approaches with the setting sun. An old friend finds Jon in the storm, and he is not alone._

**Dragons and Wolves (I)**

As the North gate opened before Jon and Daenerys, it shrieked. Ice chipped off the North side, not as much as yesterday, but blowing in farther before striking the ground just ahead of them. The frost-laden wind, screaming through the widening gap in the gate, made the constant snowy gale within the courtyard seem tame by comparison.

Together, they pushed into the wind, with Qhono just behind. As soon as they were through the gates, the dragons plunged from the tempestuous sky. Circling once, they landed quickly with a crash, not two dozen paces away.

It was a wonder how at ease Jon felt, eager even, as he dropped off his horse and started towards Rhaegal; no less a wonder to him was that the _dragon_ seemed just as placid as he. Until yesterday, Jon had thought the beasts plainly beautiful, but terrifying, and full of rage and fire, with an unconquerable instinct to destroy... 

_You know nothing, Jon Snow,_ came her echoing voice, faintly, as it had for years now...

_Jon Snow is dead_ , he thought in reply. The Bastard of Winterfell had died twice already, once at the Wall and again, last night, beneath the Weirwood. Jon Targaryen paused, and waited for his Queen. After Daenerys dismounted, Qhono took their horses and returned through the North gate.

The sounds that the dragons made to each other as he and Daenerys approached: soft, rolling growls intermixed with sharp hisses and shrill chirps; Jon had never imagined sounds so delicate and complex could come from such enormous creatures. Drogon directed to Rhaegal a soft, lilting croon that sounded, to Jon, almost _encouraging_... before turning his great head forward and moving to greet his mother. Rhaegal crept forward, one step behind Drogon.

As the dragons crawled closer, the chains of their harnesses clinked and rattled. Tyrion's design－ which the newly-named _Dragonlords_ of the Dothraki had secured yesterday－ had held fast. For that, Jon was glad, considering this would be his first and only _dragonriding lesson..._

His calm fluttered a bit as he came to stand beneath their enormity, and Jon looked one last time to his Queen for courage. Daenerys, he discovered, was already gazing at him.

Besides a look, more full of love and joy than Jon had ever seen on her before, Daenerys wore the same armored gown from this morning: the bodice of glittering chainmail and skirt of gray leathers, the dark, high-collared pauldron, and the dark leather belt and daggers. Now, however, she wore no silver dragon chain, no cape of soft blue. The braids in her silver hair, two to either side of her head, both feeding into the center, were simple and secure. The length of it had been braided up into one mass at the back. Not a single strand was left loose out of place. Nothing at all to catch the wind.

Likewise, the long, fur-trimmed cloak Jon was accustomed to had been stripped, neatly hung in his chambers, and replaced with a streamlined coat of thick, studded black leather. It looked not unlike his usual sleeveless leather jerkin: only a bit longer, darker, and looser about the legs. Like the shirt and trousers of maroon wool beneath, the coat was lined inside with thick fur. It was all as warm as it could be, but Jon still felt a bit naked without his cloak.

Under the coat, unseen, was lain a dress of chainmail. Secured over his chest was his steel gorget, bearing two Stark direwolves over the center, facing each other. Around his waist, Longclaw, in its sheath, was slung from a sword belt of darkest red leather.

Also hanging off the belt were Tyrion's other invention, the leather-and-glass goggles that he and Daenerys would both wear over their eyes, so that the whipping ice of the storm would not leave them blind. Fixing his own pair in place, he handed the other, smaller pair to Daenerys. The goggles felt heavy on his face, but even here on the ground, Jon discovered he no longer had to squint into the lashing winds.

"I'm ready," Jon said to Rhaegal after the dragon had lowered his head closer. The smoldering eye, as it had last time, captivated him. A thousand colors welled in its depths, reds and oranges, yellows and golds, even a strand of green here and there. Staring into the eye, Jon felt a nervous, eager joy.

"You both are," Daenerys agreed, beaming.

Jon smiled. "Any last words of advice?" His wife had already told him what she could of dragonriding... that it was something he had to feel, something she had no doubt that he _would_ feel. Daenerys cast her eyes down thoughtfully.

"Don't fall off," she said seriously, with a nod. Jon laughed, then glanced oddly at the dragons when they parted their jaws and let loose a quiet, quivering bray that... Jon's brow furrowed. _Are they... laughing?_

Ahead, off to one side, Drogon lowered his shoulder. With with a coy smile, Daenerys climbed quickly up the chains and took her seat between his wings. Beneath her, Drogon chirped eagerly, raising his shoulder and extending his unearthly large wings as soon as his mother's foot was off the ground. The larger of two dragons took two quick steps, and before Jon could take a breath, he watched the wind carry Drogon and Daenerys well over the walls of Winterfell.

The green frills upon Rhaegal's face fluttered past Jon's eyes, as the dragon turned his face away and lowered his shoulder. Stepping onto the iron stirrup that hung there, he hauled himself quickly up with the length of chain running from it. Within three beats of his pounding heart, Jon was seated in the slender leather saddle. Off the saddle, two short leads, ending in snap-hooks, clipped securely to his sword belt.

_Gods_ , he thought, _I'm no larger than a horsefly to_... the dragon raised his wings and lurched forward, and Jon took hold of the grips on the front of the saddle with a short yell. Rhaegal took one step, two, leaped into the air... brought his great wings down... Not expecting the force of the jump, Jon was flattened against the saddle, clutching the grips.

Taking off was noisier than he expected, and it took ten seconds of wet, gaining wind before Jon realized he was still yelling. Each beat of the dragon's wings brought them higher, _higher_ , impossibly high as they circled wide, up and over Winterfell. Each flake of icy snow striking the protective glass over his eyes ticked, and combining to a rapid, quiet rattling. Leaning his neck out and looking down, Jon saw nothing beneath him but a dark gray, ice and snow.

The air should have been frigid, but with the _heat_ emanating from the dragon beneath him, Jon felt as warm as if he were standing before a great hearth. The dragon's skin turned each flake of snow to shed water before his eyes, and Jon was glad that the leathers and furs he wore were new, and freshly oiled. Far out to either side, the dragons' wings were spread wide and held steady. 

Still hoping to glimpse some measure of their height, Jon leaned farther forward for a better look, and the wings began to fold. 

The wind picked up, icy wetness lashing the skin of his face, and then they were plummeting towards the ground. Trying not to panic as he began to lift off the saddle, Jon tightened his grip, pulled himself roughly down, wedged his feet beneath two of the dragon's spikes and clung on, yelling all the while.

Rhaegal shrieked as well, and did not slow, but leveled a bit at some unfathomable speed. Jon shouted again, helplessly, as the dragon flew straight into a wide, familiar ravine a few miles long. Jon had once spent twelve days exploring the same crag with Robb. 

The winding, gray stone walls, caked in frozen runoff, screamed past to either side, and Rhaegal banked left and right quickly to keep himself within it, twisting sideways where it was too narrow to fit the full breadth of his wings. The leads holding Jon to the harness strained at his waist hard to one way, then the other, and back again. Setting his feet, Jon made an effort to support his own weight, rather than relying on the leather ties.

Suddenly, the ravine began to close in from above, narrowing rapidly between thickening falls of ice to either side of the mountain pass, and Jon leaned back. Covering his face with one arm, sure he was about to ride himself, and the dragon into oblivion, but Rhaegal arced himself up, beat his wings twice, and tucked them into his sides.

There was an explosive sound, somewhere between crashing and scraping, and a dull thud in Jon's legs, as the the dragon's chest struck the ice pack closed overtop the ravine. Rhaegal shrieked and spread his wings out again. Leaning back still, clinging to the saddle with one hand, Jon lowered his free arm from his face and, though he meant to yell again, found himself laughing wildly. Rhaegal, pumping his wings to gain more height, steadied as Jon leaned forward and set his other hand back on the grips. Within three beats of Rhaegal's wings, the crag was lost to the storm below.

It dawned on him then, that every movement of his own had brought a corresponding motion from Rhaegal. Taking a breath, and relaxing, Rhaegal called to him－ something Jon felt in his body as much as heard it－ and the dragon took them, in a smooth, practiced way, higher up into the storm.

Just over both of their heads sailed Drogon, and Jon realized he had not seen him since they first took off. Still gaining height, Jon glimpsed a slight patch of paleness on the larger dragon's back, which could only be his Dragon Queen. 

With Rhaegal flying steady for the moment, Jon experimented with moving a bit, keeping a tight hold on the grips all the while. Leaning back resulted in Rhaegal pumping his wings, soaring higher. Leaning forward, they plunged, suddenly. When Jon shifted his weight to the right, the dragon began to bank the same way, which Jon quickly realized would cause him to pitch sideways, if he did not hold fast. Centering his weight－ and feeling thankful that Tyrion had included securing leads in his design－ Jon and Rhaegal flew on, steadily up: as one great beast made of two separate halves.

Drogon and Daenerys, flying just ahead, were still blurry in the storm. Higher and higher, into deeper darkness－ cold and damp and all but blind－ until a disorienting burst of light struck Jon, with a strange and sudden calm. To his right, impossibly, the sun was shining as bright as Jon had ever seen it. Below, the unending wall of clouds was lit to silver from above, laying as a smooth, stone floor rolling below. _We flew above the storm_ , Jon realized slowly.

Daenerys and Drogon drifted back, to fly just at his right. Even in the clear, Jon could scarcely see her face from this distance, a full wingspan away, but he could see that she was turned towards him, and he knew that she must be smiling as widely as he was. The Mother of Dragons raised her arms out and turned forward. into the wind, arching her back a bit. The dragons flew steadily together, above the clouds, the only creatures in the North who would feel the sun on their skin this day.

Slowly, Jon released his grip from the saddle. Exhilaration like he had never felt took him as he lifted his hands, incrementally, out to his sides, then, pushing the goggles over his eyes and up to his forehead, his mouth fell to behold the otherworldly sights all around him: the dragon's skin, darkest green but shimmering faintly in the light; the rolling silver clouds below, cresting here and there like ocean waves slowed in time; and the _warmth_ , from the sun above, and the incredible beast below him. Steadily, Jon raised his arms to the sides.

_A dragonrider_ , Jon thought in a new way. _Jon Targaryen!_

The name rung truer to him than it had, even last night, when Jon Snow had taken his Queen's name for his own, in sight of the Old Gods. With a wide grin, Jon laughed, exulting into the wind. From up here there was _nowhere_ he could not go, _nothing_ he could not do. With Daenerys flying by his side... Jon fixed a loving eye on his wife and Queen, the Mother to the great beast beneath him.

The elation lasted only a moment. Far past Daenerys and Drogon, the sun was just starting to touch down to grey clouds below, lighting them pale red in the West. 

_Bloody fool_ , Jon cursed himself, _getting caught up in daydreams with the army of the dead on your doorstep!_

Hurriedly, Jon fixed the goggles back over his eyes.Still, he was glad to have had _some_ time to practice. Ignorantly, Jon had convinced himself that riding a dragon could not be _so_ different from riding a horse... But the beast beneath him was farther from a horse than a Direwolf was to a common dog.

Leaning right, Rhaegal banked, and together, the dragons put the sun to their left and turned towards Winterfell. They kept above the clouds, and just as Jon began to wonder how they would ever find the Castle through the silver bank below, the dragons plunged into the clouds; though Jon had not leaned forward in the slightest. 

Whipping winds again besieged his face, rattling like grains of sand on his goggles. Circling once, the dragons landed just before the South gate, and their riders climbed down quickly. The dragons would wait where they had landed, until the time came to mount again. The sun, which Jon had seen for himself, high above the storm, was again lost to darkness. Within the hour, what subtle light it cast over the North would fail entirely.

As they walked briskly over the packed, snowy earth towards the South gate, Jon realized he had to say something to her. Married or no, they had both committed to keeping their secret until the Dawn. Now might be his last chance to tell Daenerys what she meant to him, what _that_ had meant to him... Catching her hand, all the words Jon had thought would suffice did no justice. There were no words to go along with the look that Daenerys returned to him, and none were needed.

A high, lilting croon, a sound as familiar as it was unexpected, pulled his attention away. 

_Wolves_ , Jon thought with a skip of his heart as the howl rose, more voices joining the call. In the span of two breaths, one howl turned to a dozen, turned to hundreds. _Wolves beyond counting..._

From the South, movement. Through the swirling snow, the largest wolf Jon had ever laid eyes on emerged, looking straight at him. The Direwolf would match most horses for size, her pelt a pale gray, and flanked with white; the wolf was nearly indistinguishable from the snowy gale, just twenty paces off.

Appearing just behind the first Direwolf was another, a male. Nearly as large, with a pelt of purest white, and eyes pale red. 

"Ghost!" 


	24. Dragons and Wolves (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Arya keeps busy, waiting for the right moment to approach Gendry. Dragons and wolves come face-to-face. A raven brings a startling message._

**Dragons and Wolves (II)**

Waiting in the shadow of plain sight, by the largest forge in Winterfell, Arya watched while the blacksmith began his morning's work alone, by brazier light. The Bull was fixing dragonglass blades to pommels with a single-minded focus. To his left, a tall, neat stack of obsidian blades. To his right, as many leather pommels, piled high into a mound.

The crowd thickened up, well before the faint stain of light fell from the foreboding sky above. Like every other cloaked solider nearby, Arya inspected the various obsidian weapons that had been hammered, chiseled, ground to a deadly sharpness, and affixed with great skill to different sorts of weaponry. For the last three days, every solider in Winterfell had been working all hours of the day, and well into the night. Most of them worked outside the Castle walls, on the preparations for the Great War.

The constant cacophony of near a hundred thousand soldiers, all doing their part to reshape the frozen earth outside the Castle walls, to prepare the grounds for the swarm that would come, had lessened greatly. Though now, the density of the crowd within the courtyard had doubled. The precious few craftsmen－ soldiers all come Nightfall－ worked inside the walls, as did the Captains, as did a girl.

Mid-morning, she had slipped away from watching the blacksmith work, to watch the Captains file from the war room, meet with their commanders, and order the footsoldiers－ the Northmen and the Unsullied－ to make their way through Craftsmen's alley and choose: blade and dagger, one spear, or three daggers. Compared to cured wood, dragonglass had been in ample supply.

The thick, weighty shortswords, she passed over without pause. The daggers, though finely made, felt too heavy in her hands. Besides, a girl already had one dagger to suit her well in the battle soon to come. With a slight grin, she set her eyes on a shortspear. 

There was only one spear among hundreds crafted to such a short length, and it had been well set-off from the others. The blacksmith had placed this particular weapon carefully, within his line of sight. He had glanced up at the shortspear often, between each finished blade.

Of course, he did not see a girl claim her spear as she passed by. When he saw that it had vanished, Gendry looked around rapidly for a moment. Shaking his head, and frowning, Gendry returned to his work. The stack of blades to his left, chest high this morning, had been reduced to half.

In the shadow of the crowd, Arya admired the spearheads: glittering black dragonglass, about the size of her hand, chiseled with perfect geometry, and ground to a fine point. Arya ran her hand down the hardwood shaft, smooth and strong. With a light toss, the center of the shaft fell across the top of her hand and held itself steady. Perfectly balanced. Arya moved just behind Gendry's forge, where the crowd was thinner.

Eyes closed, and imagining enemies from all sides, she practiced the motions of the spear, feeling out the weight of the dragonglass heads. Quickly, she found the familiar rhythm. A thin, brass fixture－ which had been affixed to the spear－ clipped firmly to her sword belt, at the small of her back. Just the lightest pull from above or below pulled the spear free of its fixture, from low behind one hip and high above the opposite shoulder.

Keeping Gendry and his pile of unfinished work just in her sight, Arya practiced her dancing, with the double-sided spear as her partner. Until, of all faces, the Red Woman passed by at noon, cloaked in robes of brown. From atop her charcoal steed, The Red Witch gazed over the soldiers in a way that a girl could not miss; like every soldier below was acting on her Fire God's orders. Returning the shortspear to its place, where the blacksmith would see it, a girl followed the Red Woman to the North Gate.

The Witch rode without pause, and a girl watched Lady Melisandre ask for the Queen's leave to fight in the Great War. A girl watched her brother seize the Woman by her robes, and ultimately, release her. A girl, drawing closer, heard the Dragon Queen order the death that was due, should the Red Woman survive the Long Night. A girl resolved to ensure that the Dragon Queen's order was carried out.

When the Red Witch moved for the smithies, Arya was far ahead, and put herself between Melisandre and Gendry; this was the same Woman who had once _bought_ the blacksmith－ like a prize lamb, in exchange for two bags of gold－ from Lord Beric Dondarrion. Until Arya had seen the Gendry's face again at Winterfell, she had not known he had lived beyond that day. All these years, Arya had intended to kill Lady Melisandre, and the Lightning Lord as well, the next time a girl saw them.

With a light slap on the shoulder, the grey horse Arya stood behind frisked in front of the dark steed the Woman rode. A girl revealed herself, and asked her questions. 

On the Red Woman's placid face, Arya saw much left unsaid, compared to what she was told. But she heard no trace of a lie when the Red Witch spoke of her own death to come in the Long Night. Until the Great War was won... the Red Witch and the Lightning Lord were but two more soldiers on the side of life. As unhappily as her brother had, Arya allowed the Red Priestess past, unhindered.

Still at his forge, Gendry was working diligently, and unaware of the quiet confrontation, which had occurred not ten paces away from him. The pile of unfinished weapons around the blacksmith had shrunk to the last few blades. The blacksmith glanced up at the shortspear twice as often, and more unpredictably.

Still, the blacksmith did not notice when a girl took her shortspear back up again. With ever watchful eyes, Arya resumed her dancing practice with the spear, and could not help a breathy chuckle when the blacksmith noticed, again, that it was gone. The Bull threw his hands up and cursed, then put fists to hips and turned slowly, scanning the crowd. With a furrowed brow and narrowed, careful eye, the blacksmith forced a girl to duck out of sight, before he finally went back to his work.

Just after noon, he finished the last blade. The blacksmith dusted his hands, turning as he did to watch the dragons fly low overhead－ one after the other－ then quickly disappear into the storm beyond the walls. Glancing around his forge one last time, Gendry hung his hammer, tongs, and apron. When he took his first step out from his forge, Arya stepped into his path, a slight smile on her face. Behind her back, the spear the blacksmith had made for her was clipped to her belt.

Gendry stopped in his tracks. Shocked disbelief twisted his face, and then he was jerking a finger at her. "So it _was_ you! I've been looking for you!" Gendry accused. "I heard you were here but－" 

"You were busy," Arya said simply. Pulling her spear free, she twirled it over her hands twice, then snapped it back into place, behind her, with one fluid motion. In the last three days, she had watched the blacksmith make as many weapons as the next two smiths combined, and his were of the very finest make. "Now you're not."

Gendry only stared at her with a furrowed brow. "Come walk with me," she said, already turning and making for the Castle through the bustling crowd of soldiers.

Gendry sputtered a moment before rushing forward to cover the five paces she had already put between them.

"Arya, wait! Just _wait_!" He shouted, catching her by the hand, roughly. Wide-eyed, Arya whirled, glanced from his grip－ on her wrist－ to his eyes. "I thought you were _dead_ ," Gendry growled. "Then I come here, and I find out that you're _alive_ , and in Winterfell... and _still,_ I couldn't find you!" His voice was softer when he asked, "Where in the Seven Hells have you been all this time?"

A girl hardly heard him, just waited for him to finish, waited for his grip to loosen the slightest bit... Twisting her wrist free of his hold, dancing around to his back, a girl pulled first her spear free, then her dagger. The spearshaft wedged beneath his arm, twisted it up behind him. With the same motion, the point of her dagger was pressed against his back. It was poised to cut cleanly through the spine, with only a light push.

Gendry froze. Suddenly, her brow furrowed, and Arya slid the dagger back into its sheath. Letting her light hold on the spear loosen, she clipped it back to her belt while Gendry turned, free hand on his shoulder. Around them, a few soldiers looked curiously on as they passed, but none stopped. Not once had she thought of hurting Gendry... yet when the blacksmith had grabbed her wrist, a girl had reacted without thought. 

Distantly, Arya Stark remembered the question Gendry had just asked her.

"Training," Arya answered. When Gendry turned, she had expected to see fear on his face, but instead there was a wide grin. Before she realized it, Arya was smiling back. "How did you know I would choose the spear?"

Gendry, still holding the arm she had twisted up with the spearshaft, glared at her. "Well, I couldn't make you a glass sword as thin as your bloody _Needle_ ," Gendry gruffed. "And I suppose I heard the truth... that you already have a dagger."

"How did you find out about my dagger?"

"I told you," Gendry said impatiently, taking a step forward. "I've been _looking_ for you!"

"I know," she replied. "Come walk with me." Arya brushed past Gendry with a wolfy grin, and this time he did not hesitate to follow. Staying just in sight ahead of him, Arya led Gendry through the crowd, towards the Castle. After Arya pulled open one of the many side-doors into Winterfell, she slowed to a brisk walk, and allowed him to catch up.

"Where were you training?" Gendry asked breathlessly as they moved down the silent stone hall, braziers flickering past quickly to either side.

"Bravos."

"Oh, for fucks sake, Arya! _Who_ trained you?"

"No one," she said passively as she pulled the door to her childhood bedroom open and gazed around.

The scent of it flooded her with memories, and she regretted avoiding this place as long as she had. The last time she had been here, a young girl was packing for a journey South, for King's Landing. Septa Mordane had decided her clothes were not folded properly, and told her to repack them. A Direwolf pup called Nymeria had sat in the corner patiently, no larger or wilder than a common dog. Jon had given her a sword, then said goodbye, and left for the Wall. 

The scent of the room though... it was older than those somber memories. Years older. A warm scent of dry cloth, soft leather, wood, and stone, and... _home_.

Arya's hand drifted to the buckle of her belt. Neatly, she hung it with her spear and dagger still sheathed, on a peg upon the wall. How many lectures from Septa Mordane had she gotten, for not hanging her dresses so neatly? Without her blades, Arya felt naked, despite the thick brown coat, half-cloak, and breeches she wore.

"This was your room," Gendry reasoned out from behind her, inspecting the wall hangings. Charcoal portraits of her father and Jon hung, framed, above her bed. Seeing them, Arya smiled. Hodor had drawn them for her; her brother and father's likenesses had been so well captured that Arya Stark _demanded_ her father pay the sweet, simple man a gold piece for each of them. 

_Father payed him five,_ she remembered.

"It was," she replied, pulling her eye from her father's portrait. Gendry had drifted to the corner, and was peaking beneath a crooked, dusty Stark banner. Haphazardly hung, the banner poorly covered over the wooden beam beneath it. "I'm different now," she said hesitantly.

Gendry glanced at her with an arched eyebrow, and yanked the loosely hung banner down. As the dusty cloth fell, it revealed the many old scars in the wood, left behind from her childhood target practice. The dinner knife she had smuggled away－ right under Setpa Mordane's nose－ was still balanced atop the two iron nails, tacked halfway down the beam.

"Not that different," Gendry replied with a grin, tilting his head at the blade she had hidden away, all those years ago.

Another unfamiliar, and honest smile came to her face. "Does that mean you mean you still see me as a Lady?" Arya teased.

"It means that I love you," Gendry shot back seriously, taking a step forward. His brow furrowed, he broke his gaze for a heartbeat, and went on. "Arya, I couldn't _find_ you... I thought you didn't _want_ me to find you! I thought I wouldn't get to tell you before..."

There was no need to say. A girl had learned; Gendry had once seen the army that would come in the Night, and already the sun would be starting to fall to the West. In the silent pause that followed, her sharp ears could hear the wind whipping against the walls of the Castle, yet she thought little of the wind in that moment.

_Love..._ It had always seemed a strange, hasty thing to the girl who had lived in this room. But that had been a different girl.   
  


Gendry wrapped his arms around Arya just before her lips met his. One arm he snugged around her waist, the other he set just behind her head, and kissed Arya like he had imagined a thousand times.

The kiss eased the ache of the long years, and for all that time the wild girl had been missing to him, dead for all he knew. All that time, she had been on his mind. Gendry drew back, to look on her face again. There was no mistaking she was different. Arya _looked_ nearly as different as she acted, but her eyes were the same.

_Wolf eyes_ , Gendry thought, smiling. Just as dark and wide, and wild as he remembered. Wilder, even. For a few quiet moments, a grin spread slowly across her face. Gendry thought she might kiss him again, when her eyes took a distracted look to them. Arya tilted her head. 

"What?" Gendry tried to ask, but she put a gloved hand over his mouth, and listened. All at once, she met his eyes again and grinned madly.

"Follow me," she said, snatching her weapons off the peg and rushing for the door.

Scrambling after her, their pace made short work of the hallway. The wind outside the walls had taken on a strange, rolling lilt, and when they pushed through the small door leading outside, Gendry realized it was not the wind howling, but wolves.

_There must be hundreds of them_ , he marveled as more and more howls joined in the call. Soldiers began to stop and listen. The keening grew louder, wilder, until all other sounds were lost to the wolfsong. The howl fell to a quick and sudden silence, and Gendry looked over at the wolf-girl. A lone howl sounded, closer and deeper than all the others.

Arya grinned, and without warning, she darted South. By then, the wolves had resumed their deafening keen. Being a fairly fast runner had been advantageous to Gendry before, it had even saved his life, but it had never satisfied the way it did now; following on her heels. They ran through the crowds, into the South gatehouse, and out the small door to the grounds South of Winterfell.

Within a few dozen paces, the wolf-girl called out a name, running blindly into the snowy winds ahead. 

The Mother of Dragons had seen a great number of beasts, but never a wolf, not before the two Direwolves appeared in the storm. 

The larger, gray wolf stopped ten paces back, sat, and looked off towards Winterfell. In the raging blizzard beyond, the wild howl went on. The white wolf, following behind the gray, moved forward with his black nose low to the ground, and his carmine eyes fixed on them.

Somewhere behind their mother, Drogon growled, but quieted after Rhaegal shrieked once. Off in the storm, the howling paused, falling to quick silence. The enormous gray wolf turned her nose to the sky and sang once more. The howling of hundreds of wolves resumed, louder than the first. The rich, pulsing timber of their voices... Daenerys could _feel_ it as much as hear it, this close.

"Ghost!" Jon breathed with a disbelieving smile, taking a few steps forward. Ghost glanced at Jon, but skirted around the man as he approached, and fixed his pale red eyes on her. "Ghost?" Jon said warily as the Direwolf moved past, his nose still low, his eyes still locked on hers.

The white beast would match her height at his shoulder, if he did not exceed it. _Perhaps I should feel afraid_ , Daenerys thought. And yet, behind her, the dragons watched as quietly as Jon did. Ghost put himself directly between herself and Jon. The white wolf raised his nose from the ground, and brought his great head to level with his shoulders. Not a pace away from her, Ghost's crimson eyes stared into her own, unblinking.

The Direwolf was as much a monster, a beast as her own children might seem to some. A companion to Jon, trained, and yet forever untamed. Like her children, Ghost had been beautiful from afar, and up close...

"Hello, gorgeous," she murmured, dropping her head a bit and extending a hand halfway forward, as she had seen Jon do. The wolf blinked, lowered his head, and sniffed her hand, all without taking his eyes from hers.   
  


Jon watched curiously as Ghost sniffed Daenerys' hand, until he finally huffed, turned, trotted back to him. When Ghost reached him, the Direwolf nosed his hand with a low whine. Jon laughed, ruffling the fur on his head.

"It's good to see you boy," Jon said. Ghost snarled viciously in reply, but pressed his head harder against Jon, and the snarl dropped back to a whine. "I missed you too," he whispered, leaning his weight into the wolf and scratching roughly between his shoulders.

"Nymeria!"

Jon turned at his sisters voice, and saw Arya run forward, through the storm and into view, before slowing to a walk. Surprisingly, Gendry was at her heels. The great gray Direwolf quickly closed the rest of the distance to Arya.

Looking closer, the white of Nymeria's muzzle was cut through with scars, and now stood nearly two heads taller than his sister. Nymeria dropped her head, and pressed it roughly against Arya's shoulder as she passed by. 

Brushing past Arya, and sniffing Gendry briefly as she passed, Nymeria trotted off, heading North and East.

Movement caught Jon's eye. All around, more wolves were materializing from the storm, and the howling slowly ceased. The pack, with great hesitance, followed after Nymeria, passing the humans by with skirting glances, and trailing in broken lines behind the great gray she-wolf.

From the South, more wolves kept appearing from the snowy winds, seemingly without end. Some of them were as big as Ghost－ who had remained at Jon's side as the rest of the pack passed them by－ Direwolves, dozens of them, but none larger than Nymeria. Others were as small and slender as wolves came: some were black, some white, but most were some gradient of silver and ash.

Passing by the dragons, the wolves kept eyes on them. Yet, as Jon watched, it was plain to see that the wolves were more comfortable near the _dragons_ than the humans. Likewise, the dragons watched the wolves pass by, almost curiously. 

Ghost, at his side, only tilted his head when Rhaegal moved forward a few steps, lowered his serpentine neck low, and sniffed the great white wolf from five paces off. After a few sniffs, Rhaegal returned his attention to Drogon, calling softly. Ghost shook himself off.

More and more wolves continued to appear from the South, making their way North and East after Nymeria.

_What is this..._ Jon wondered, watching dumbstruck as the innumerable pack streamed past. The rapidly-darkening storm swallowed them from sight again. "Where are they going?" Jon asked out loud. Nobody answered him.

Jon startled at the sudden caw of a raven, just over his shoulder. The unusually large bird landed with a flutter of black wings on Ghost's shoulder, and the wolf twitched an ear, but otherwise did not seem the least bit surprised to see it.

The raven cawed again, twice in a row, tilting its head at Jon. In the center of its forehead was a white spot, rounded at top and bottom, and pinched out a bit at the sides. The raven cawed again, twice: one note short and sharp... the second longer, and softer.

" _Gahd-swuud_ ," the raven cawed roughly on the third try. " _God-swood_."

Before Jon could utter a sound, the raven flew off, following the trailing lines of wolves all heading Northeast－ he realized－ for the small portcullis, which would open directly into the Godswood.


	25. The Long Night (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As Night falls over the North, The Three-Eyed Raven speaks with Jon and Daenerys at the Weirwood Tree. Arya determines her place in the battle to come. Gendry wields a new hammer. The dragonriders secure the outer defenses. The armies gathered at Winterfell discover an odd overlap in their cultures._

**The Long Night (I)**

At the Southern base of the Weirwood tree, a young man－ who had once been called Bran Stark－ sat in the wheeling chair and waited.

Motionless in brown furs, with its eyes a pale grey, the Three-Eyed Raven summoned Jon and Daenerys Targaryen to the Godswood. Above the young man, in the upper branches of the wood, thousands of ravens had gathered. The Three-Eyed Raven had summoned them all: every bird able to fly the distance to Winterfell. The birds called raucously to each other, quorking and cawing until, all at once, they ceased.

One bird－ larger than the others, with a white spot above and between its eyes－ flew over the South wall and landed on the boy in the wheeling chair. The Three-Eyed Raven felt a fluttering on his physical tether, and the grey of its eyes turned again to the brown of Bran Stark's. 

The great, gleaming black bird perched on the cripple's lap, quorking familiarly, while the opening creak of the small portcullis echoed through the newly quiet trees.

Before long, the wolves and Direwolves were streaming past, some glancing behind them, others trotting into the shelter of the trees without pause. None of the wolves stopped, or even slowed to regard the Three Eyed Raven in the wheeling chair. The great bird upon his lap quorked again.

Jon and Daenerys emerged slowly from the trees, along with Arya and Gendry. The four of them moved silently forward, each regarding the Three-Eyed Raven with an understandable nervousness.

"Bran," Jon breathed. "The wolves... that was you?"

"I invited them," the Three-Eyed Raven replied simply. "They came." It did not matter enough to mention how the wolves thirsted for revenge against the Cold Ones, who had stolen so many of their brothers and sisters. Nor did it matter to mention, again, that the Three-Eyed Raven was not Bran Stark. Within this very wood, Arya Stark had told Jon as much, on his first day back in Winterfell.

"Why did you call us here?" Arya demanded, her hand resting on the hilt of her dagger. The wolf-girl had long considered adding the Three-Eyed Raven to her death list.

"Not you," the Raven replied, turning its attention back to Daenerys and Jon. "Them."

"Why us?" Jon demanded.

"Why would the Gods make Queens and Kings?" The Three-Eyed Raven asked Daenerys, knowing that the Queen had once asked herself the same.

"To protect those who can't protect themselves..." The Queen answered softly.

The Raven nodded, and looked around the Godswood. "You both had to see where it ends." Its gaze settled on the red, weeping eyes of the Weirwood. "And where it began."

"What do you mean?" Jon asked.

"The Night King is not an ordinary Whitewalker... But once, he was an ordinary man," the Raven said, casting an empty look at Gendry, who shied away. "One of the First Men. The Children of the Forest chained him to a Weirwood tree," it went on, looking to the bloody face carved into the trunk. "The Night King was _made_ here. And here is the only place where he can be unmade."

"How, Bran?" Jon demanded, taking a step closer. " _How_ do we unmake the Night King? Will dragonfire kill him? Or Valyrian steel, or dragonglass?"

"I don't know," the Raven said. "Nobody has even touched the Night King since the day he was made... I can only remember that it has to end where it started."

"Well, that's helpful," Gendry scoffed, and Arya smacked him roughly.

"The soldiers," Jon breathed. "I need to tell them. They have to hold the Godswood," he said, turning.

"I already did," the Raven said, catching Jon halfway through his turn, and explained before Jon could ask. "Many of the Northmen still see me as Bran Stark. The North will hold the Godswood to the last man, if need be."

The Raven turned suddenly, yet slowly, to Arya. "I am glad you came home, Arya. The wolves only came because you were here. If it weren't for you, it would only be Ghost. Nobody has told you what you are... but you know already, don't you?"

The empty eyes of the Three-Eyed Raven bored into Arya. Glancing into the trees－ behind the thing that wore Bran's skin－ she saw Nymeria. The great silver Direwolf was sitting at the edge of the forest, near invisible in the snowy brush but for the amber eyes, boring back into her own.

The wolf dreams had come every night, ever since Arya had turned her horse North at the crossroads to find her family, rather than South, to King's Landing, to kill Cersei Lannister once and for all. Every night since, when sleep took her, Arya took the form of the Gray Wolf: the largest and fiercest of the pack, hundreds-strong. When Jon had left the North, and Ghost joined the pack, the White Wolf became second only to his sister, Nymeria.

When Ghost had reunited with Nymeria, Arya had not just _seen_ it; she lived it. When Nymeria turned the pack North, and amassed just South of Winterfell, Arya had watched through the she-wolf's eye. When howling started, not an hour ago, Arya had _known_.

 _"You've got the wolf-blood in you,"_ her father used to tell her, never knowing the truth of his own words. _What I am..._ she thought.

"I can't control it," Arya declared. "Not even when I sleep."

"It's not something you control," the Three-Eyed Raven said softly, raising his hand to gently stroke the white-spotted raven in his lap. The bird quorked, turned, looked into her eyes. "It's not something you can _make_ happen. You have to let it happen." The Raven turned to look at the Gray Wolf. "Both of you."

Nymeria was still staring at her, still as stone. The wolf's eyes drew her in, invited her to join the pack. To live as one mind in two bodies. For a flash, Arya saw herself staring back, instead of the Gray Wolf. Then it was gone, and she was left staring with a furrowed brow at Nymeria. 

The Three-Eyed Raven was still looking at her. "It's like looking through a window, at first," the Raven said knowingly. "I could... open the window for you. If you wanted."

Cold suspicion crept into Arya's voice. "Why didn't you mention any of this before?"

"The last Three-Eyed Raven lived for hundreds of years. Until recently, I was only Bran Stark," the Raven explained. Arya only stared, and it went on. "But the last Three-Eyed Raven had never been so close to the dragons. The dragons are fire made flesh... and fire is power. All magic is strongest in the presence of dragons," the Raven looked to the dragons' Mother. "And their magic is strongest in hers."

Nymeria moved suddenly. From sitting to standing stiff and erect, her hackles up, and her head low. The amber eyes of the gray Direwolf bored into her with a stoic impatience.

"Do it," Arya said suddenly, and watched Bran's brown eyes turn to grey. Nothing happened at first.

When Arya blinked, the Godswood was empty, and lit to a glowing, ethereal brightness. Above, a full and heavy moon, and too many stars, shined over-zealously in an indigo and silver sky. 

Everyone else was gone, except for Nymeria. The Direwolf was still standing where she had been, waiting for her; when Arya took a step forward, Nymeria did the same. Halfway between them, glistening faintly in the heavy moonlight, a thin barrier stretched across the air. With two more steps, mirrored by the Direwolf, Arya reached her hand, palm-up, to the shifting layer of light. As her fingers touched the barrier, Nymeria rested her scarred white muzzle atop her hand. 

With a blink, and a flash that was both hot and cold, the Godswood－ as it was before－ returned all around her. Through Nymeria's eye, she saw Jon, Daenerys, Gendry, and the Three-Eyed Raven were all watching her.

Dizzily, she watched the brown hair of her own head lean on the Direwolf's shoulder, and felt the light pressure she put there. When Arya opened her eyes again, her vision was her own, the pressure was gone, and with a few blinks, Arya found she could slide into and out of Nymeria's skin with no more effort than the blink itself.

 _Soon_ , came the pure and simple thought. Not the word itself, but a _feeling_ that her mind placed a word to. A deep, low growl rolled in her chest. _Cold Ones_.

Above Arya's head, thousands of ravens began to caw madly to each other, fluttering rapidly between the branches. The largest raven, perched on Bran's lap, and nearly as big as his torso, cawed once.

" _Soon_."

All around, the other ravens began to mimic the call, until thousands of birds cried the fell word together, flying up and into the storm. " _Soon... soon... soon_." The boughs above Arya's head had grown too dark to see through, even through Nymeria's eyes. In the sky beyond the branches, the sun had failed. The Long Night had fallen on the North.

"I think you had better go now," the Three-Eyed Raven murmured, and its eyes turned again from deep brown to pale gray. The great, white-spotted raven upon Bran's lap took immediately to the sky.

Jon's eyes widened. "Make ready!" His shout was lost to the wind and the fell cawing of more than a thousand ravens flying and crying together... " _Soon! Soon! Soon!"_

Reaching for his belt, Jon pulled the Night's Watch horn free and blew it thrice. The high, cresting trumpet of the horn would echo for a mile in any direction. Every soldier in Winterfell had been told to be ready without warning, and if the horn came... to know that the army of the dead was here.

Arya straightened from her lean against the Direwolf. "Nymeria and I will watch the Godswood. Thin the swarm as well as you can, and wait for the howl," Arya declared, freeing her spear from behind her and spinning it over her hands. Jon opened his mouth to tell her to be careful, but Gendry cut him off.

"I'm staying with you," Gendry insisted, pulling his hammer free from behind his shoulder.

"Obviously," Arya quipped.

At that moment, Jon noticed Gendry's new hammer. The hammerhead was a solid block of light steel, at either end tipped with a three-inch Valyrian Steel spike. The dark ripples in the metal were unique. The small amount of precious metal had been a gift, brought to Gendry by the Dragon Queen's craftsmen on their first day in Winterfell. One of her craftswomen, a master smith from the Free City of Tyrosh, had been sent to instruct Gendry on reforging the broken pieces. The priceless gift of Valyrian steel had been Tyrion's suggestion, and with Jon and Davos' support, Daenerys had approved eagerly.

"A weapon worthy of its maker," Daenerys said casually, with a slight smile at Gendry's hammer.

Gendry grinned reply, nodded, and tightened his grip on the shaft. "Thank you, Your Grace. I named her, _Last Storm_."

Rare to find, and difficult to forge, Valrian Steel was among the most valuable materials in the world. Like the dragonglass from which the steel alloy was forged, Valyrian Steel was lethal to wights and Whitewalkers alike. Jon had no doubt remaining to him that Arya could handle herself, but part of him still felt relieved that a good man, with a _monstrous_ hammer, was at his sister's back. Jon smiled at Arya, praying it was not for the last time.

"Good luck, Your Grace," Arya said to him with a slight grin, then glanced at Daenerys and nodded. "Your Grace." With that, his sister and her Direwolf turned and disappeared into the brush, Gendry jogging just behind.

Saying nothing as they did, Jon and Daenerys moved quickly to the portcullis, which closed shut behind the two of them without any order. Hissing preceded the sight of the dragons' massive legs; they had moved closer to the walls, and waited just outside the gate.

As soon as they were through, Drogon roared and stepped forward, lowering his shoulder. Rhaegal, just beside him, did the same but with a high, nervous shriek.

Finding the dragon's eye, Jon felt his own rage and fear, his bloodlust for revenge magnified a thousandfold. With a final, determined glance at each other, the dragonriders took to their mounts, and then to the sky. Within seconds, they were flying not twenty paces above the Castle walls. There was just enough room below to accommodate each sweep of the dragons' wings. From this height, even through the storm, they could see the ground, and the preparations that had been made there.

Three rings of defense encircled Castle Winterfell. With any luck, the defenses would thin the swarm of corpses, and delay long enough to defeat the Night King at the Weirwood tree. _Remember that it has to end where it started_ , Jon heard in Bran's empty voice. Shaking his head, he tried not to wonder long why the words had come _so clearly_ to his mind.

The dragons flew North, from high at first, lowering carefully to fly over the great trench that served at the outermost ring. Wherever the army of the dead was, behind the storm, they had not reached the outer defense yet. 

_There will be no missing that signal,_ Jon thought.

Ten paces wide, and as many deep, the trench bore no raised spots, no points of weakness or crossing. Rough-cut wood, hacked from trees and yet uncured, had been set deep within the trench; each was tipped with a roughly chiseled, yet deadly sharp piece of dragonglass. Below the spears, within the trench, a layer of pitch. The tar seemed, from dragonback, as a dark and bottomless chasm into the icy ground. Set every ten paces, within the trench, all the way around, were tall braziers of Meereenese make; the long, trumpet-shaped braziers were filled with enough pitch to burn for three days or more.

The trap-braziers were set within the trench, and secured to the ground with only a light packing of snow. They would tip over readily, when the dead came. In doing so, they would ignite the first ring of defense. Beneath him, Rhaeghal growled eagerly to behold the deadly trap, and Jon found himself grinning with narrow eyes. 

The outer ring was secure. Ten paces past the outer ring, towards Winterfell, was the second ring of defense: the hill, and just behind, the siege weapons.

The second line of defense was comprised of all the earth that had come from digging out the first, stacked high into a tall mound, ten paces past the inside edge of the trench. The ground between the trench and the outside edge of the hill was soaked in yet more pitch, hard frozen to the ground and yet no less flammable than it was liquid. Buried into the top of the hill, a rough-wood and dragonglass barricade, lashed together and angled out.

Ten paces behind the hill and barricade, where the ground was level, lay the siege weapons. The trebuchets were set every hundred paces or so, all the way around Winterfell, near fifty paces outside the walls. A twin set of braziers flickered by each siege weapon, lit and ready to ignite the tightly bound, oil-soaked rags, and then the fire traps. The hill and barricade would guard the retreat when the Unsullied lieutenants, manning the siege weapons, were overwhelmed.

 _"When, not if,"_ _Jon declared with a look at Grey Worm during the final summit of the Captains; the Unsullied soldier nodded determinedly in reply._

That summit had not been more than six hours ago, yet it felt as if days had passed. Jon nodded to himself; the Unsullied were in their places. The Essosi soldiers－ trained for battle since birth－ already held together in their shield-wall formation between the siege weapons. Thirty paces behind the forward line, another shield-wall of Unsullied, two men deep.

 _Every man in his place, and every fire trap burning_ , _or ready to,_ Jon thought with a timid hope. Angling inward again, Jon and Daenerys inspected the third, innermost ring of defense: _the khalasar,_ mounted and waiting just outside the walls of Winterfell.

_"As you know, there is no way to fit every Dothraki inside the walls," Jon told Qhono, the commander of the Riders. Daenerys translated his words, so that there could be no misunderstanding._

_Qhono scoffed and spit on the stone floor, earning a stern look from Daenerys. Qhono straightened under her gaze and replied, "The_ khalasar _does not fight in stone houses, or metal dresses. It is known."_

The Dothraki _khalasar._ Near a hundred-thousand men and women, mounted and ready to serve as the third, and last ring of defense. The final barrier between the army of the dead and the walls of Castle Winterfell.

Every bloodrider was armed with an odd-looking variant of the curved _arakh_. The dragonglass _arakhs_ were roughly cut, but sturdy. More like clubs than blades, but each bearing a razor sharpness on the outside edge. Every Rider had strapped eight full quivers of obsidian-tipped arrows, over their mounts' shoulders and hindquarters. Of all the obsidian weapons, the arrows were the most abundant, and most valuable; the craftsmen of Winterfell had been fletching arrowshafts for months now, ever since Jon had first returned home from the Wall.

The dragons circled over the _khalasar_ , from North to South and North again. The third ring of defense was ready. Flying so low to the ground, Jon could hear every Rider chanting the same war song. Something about it sounded familiar, though Jon could not understand the words. He realized it was the _melody_ that was familiar.

 _The First Song_ , Jon thought with wide eyes, inspecting the _khalasar_ rolling below him, as if he could be mistaken.

Perhaps a note was different here or there, but was no _mistaking_ that melody. Every Northman had heard _the First Song_ sung to them as a babe in crib, and when they were older, their mothers would tell them of the legend. Long ago, the First Men once sang it with the Children of the Forest, when together they fought for the Dawn after the Long Night.

 _How could the Dothraki know the First Song?_ Jon wondered as they turned their dragons in again, to land within the walls.

The familiar chant from the Dothraki below caught her unawares; it was a song Daenerys had heard before. _The Stallion Who Mounts the World..._

An ancient prophecy of the Dothraki, Daenerys first heard it within the wooden walls of the Temple of the _Dosh Khaleen_ ; the crones had pronounced her and Khal Drogo's unborn son as _The Stallion Who Mounts the World_. But her child had been stillborn... after the witch Mirri-Maz Duur had betrayed Daenerys and murdered her husband and baby, still in the womb. While Daenerys watched the witch burn, bound to Khal Drogo's funeral pyre, the chant had echoed in her mind. Until now, that was the last the _Khaleesi_ had thought on the prophecy of The Stallion _._

" _The prince is riding!_ " The Dothraki chanted together, as one voice. Every Rider knew the song.

_"As swift as the wind, he rides,_

_The Khal of Khals!_

_Fierce as a storm this Prince will be,_

_And behind him, his khalasar covers the earth._

_Men without number,_

_With arakhs shining in their hands,_

_Like blades of razor glass._

_The prince is riding!"_

The Queen usually found herself with little spare time to ponder on prophecies, and now was no different. With the innermost ring secured and ready, Daenerys and Jon turned the dragons inward again, to land on two of the many circular stone towers within the walls of Winterfell. In the courtyard below, Daenerys quickly realized, the Northmen had picked up the song. Somehow, the chanting melody was near identical to _the Stallion Who Mounts the World_ , though the words were quite different.

The slow, booming song echoed within the stone walls of the courtyard of Winterfell. It had seemed superfluous to her at first, to _sing_ at a time such as this... but as the first verse of the Northern ballad came to a close, Daenerys found herself with the tender makings of hope fluttering in her heart.

_"If the Dawn is to rise,_

_We must weather first the Storm,_

_Heroes will rise,_

_And the earth, transform!_

_By sword and shield, by spear and bow,_

_We will hold..._

_...And we fight for the Dawn!"_

The Unsullied rapped their spears to their shields rhythmically; the Dothraki shouted together, "The Prince is Riding!" Every Northman sang now, more than twenty thousand voices coming as one in the Night.

_On dark wings, come dark words,_

_Yet we rally to the call!_

_Together we rise, and_ _－_ _together_ _－_ _fall!_

_Brave the Night!_

_And keep in the Light._

_Together raise... our blackened blades..._

_...And we fight for the Dawn!_

The green of Daenerys' eyes caught the light as the outer ring blazed to a sudden start. The chanting fell sharply to the crackle of fire meeting ice. One hundred paces outside the North walls, the inferno spread to either side, quickly down the chasm, encircling Winterfell in a ring of fire fifty paces high. _Too quickly..._ The fire should not spread that fast on its own, not from pitch hard-frozen... _All the braziers are falling. One by one, from North to South..._

The brightest light the Castle had seen in days shined upon the outer walls, casting deep shadows within the courtyard. Despite the towering circle of flames, Daenerys felt a cold sensation in her chest. Uncomfortable and familiar, like a needle of ice pressing against her heart; Daenerys gasped. She had dreamed of this feeling often, ever since her dragon had been killed.

 _Viserion is near..._ Drogon and Rhaegal felt his presence too, and roared together. The dragons turned themselves North and lowered their necks, raised their wings to prepare for flight, hissing and shrieking impatiently. The same eager rage pounded within Daenerys, with every beat of her heart. _Wait..._

At the Northernmost point of the first defense, a black spot appeared within the flames. The darkness twitched, pulsed, and spread to either side, boring through the flames of the first ring and building width quickly. _Too soon..._

They were meant to wait, to find the Night King and end the threat of Viserion before anything else. If they could end the battle before it could reach the Castle...

Drogon and Rhaegal roared together while Daenerys watched the darkness spilling rapidly over the flames, and quickly to either side. A dark and gnarled finger needled quickly through their first defense. _Too soon_...

From here, through the storm, only the fire itself was visible in the Night; the army of the dead was visible only as an ever-shifting shadow, snaking over the ground. The siege weapons fired rapidly, cutting swathes through the twisting, frantic shadows as they poured in near a straight line through the wall of flames.

The flames of the first defense, the fire trench, steadily submitted to the dead streaming through. The siege weapons cut fiery gashes through the twisting mass of darkness, rushing South, but the gashes were almost immediately refilled again with darkness. The trebuchets angled out, as the gnarled finger reaching through the fire turned to a fist.

 _Too soon..._ Daenerys thought with a twist in her stomach. The siege weapons were still firing, each flaming trail quickly smothered again by the shifting shadow. The dark mass, pouring from due North through the wall of flames, rushed closer and closer to the trebuchets, and the Unsullied still firing them. _If Grey Worm cannot order the retreat..._

"We can't wait!" Danerys shouted, and without a pause, Drogon launched himself off the tower with a vicious scream, and Rhaegal followed just after.

Within seconds, the dragons were flying low over the army... Corpses beyond number, behaving more like a flooding river than an army, piling atop one another at the front end into a single mass. The dead surged through Northern breach in the first ring of fire, over a bridge of corpses and charred bones.

The siege weapons were still firing; cattle-sized balls of fire smashing into the river of dead men, and burning as they went, but the endless dead poured over the flames and burning corpses, smothering them and charging forward as if unchallenged.

With narrow eyes, Daenerys flew her dragons straight towards the flowing river of darkness. " _DRACARYS_!"

Side-by-side, the dragons let loose twin spouts of flame into the mass of corpses. The flames blossomed below like summer flowers, and the dragons held their flame as long as they could, laying waste to thousands as they raked upstream. Dragonfire burned longer than pitch, but still the army seemed to swallow the flames into darkness.

The dragonfire carved flaming chasms down the flood of dead men, but the flood spilled into the flames, and the army of dead men surged over them.

The dragons had reached the wall of flames－ the outer ring－ burning even lower as the bridge of broken, smoking corpses widened still below. The dragons turned suddenly, unwilling to fly any farther North; Daenerys clung on, while Drogon twisted and turned, pumping his wings against his weight and doubling rapidly back to the South, towards Winterfell, banking left and right as he did. Daenerys kept her eyes behind, while Drogon kept his forward.

The dragons could not afford to remain still, or to fly too straight a path. The Whitewalkers had terrible weapons, of ice and death, and one such weapon had already killed one of her children. The icy needle pricked at her heart again. _Viserion_... Drogon screamed below her, and at her left she heard Rhaegal echo it.

Flying slowly, South and into the wind, the dragons laid more fire down into the mass of twisting darkness, flooding steadily across the ever-widening breach in the first ring.

Over the North wall of Winterfell, Daenerys leaned left and brought Drogon around again, to face the darkness.

Again and again the dragons unleashed their full power on the ever-thickening army, buying only precious inches at a time. Together, they were _just_ keeping the river of corpses from flooding the second line of defense. The siege weapons continued to fire, their flaming masses swallowed by the army of darkness even faster than the dragonfire.

 _Burn,_ Daenerys thought, the fire in her heart searing against her ribcage. _BURN!_

The dragonfires below bloomed and died as rapidly as the dragons could breathe. The siege weapons had stopped firing. Trailing lines of corpses, like lines of endless ants from a swarming nest, all boring straight for the Unsullied shield-wall. 


	26. The Long Night (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The army of the dead marches on Winterfell. Grey Worm and the Unsullied hold their position for as long as they can, while Qhono and the Dothraki protect the Unsullied retreat._

**The Long Night (II)**

"Fire!" Grey Worm shouted. The two Unsullied lieutenants, loosing the ballista nearest to him, were the most efficient soldiers in the world. The former slaves were raised and bred for battle. The lieutenants, like their Captain, had been hand picked by the men below them to lead. 

Every command Grey Worm gave, the lieutenants repeated. There would be little time to fire the siege weapons, but the Unsullied would hold the swarm back as long as they could. Not a single shot could afford to be sacrificed. Men would die tonight to keep the weapons firing as long as possible.

_Valar morghulis._

The only Unsullied mounted, Grey Worm was astride an enormous chestnut destrier, tall and highly visible to the brown-clad soldiers. Each man waited with eyes forward; thousands of shields held together as one wall, with glittering black spearheads resting between the point were each shield met the next.

The Unsullied trusted Grey Worm to call the retreat: not too soon, and not too late... _But it is already too late..._   
The twisting mass of darkness surged forward, swallowed every flaming projectile that cut through it. _There will not be enough time,_ he thought tensely. The Unsullied shield-wall would not hold what came for them.

Every soldier knew that things changed in battle, most frequently at the first sighting. To call the retreat now would put the army of the dead at their backs.

 _This is no army_ , Grey Worm thought as he beheld the surging mass of dead men. _This_ _is a flood..._

Blue eyes beyond counting blazed with a cold, frenzied hatred. The wall of corpses stood twice as high as any soldier in the line, ten paces ahead, now eight, _five_... There was only one option remaining.

_The fire traps._

Just before Grey Worm could give the order, twin spouts of golden fire reigned down from the sky, scattering the imminent flood of dead men. The grotesque, twisting mass of many thousands was split into three smaller lines. The dragons razed upstream, North and away from the Unsullied.

" _Mhysa_!" The lieutenants shouted together, though not a single man paused in his loading and firing of the siege weapons. The soldiers, holding the shield-wall ten paces back, boomed together, " _H_ _ō_ _u! H_ _ō_ _u! H_ _ō_ _u!_ "

In the blaze of the dragons' fire, corpses ignited each other, fell to the ground, and were quickly covered over by the fray of more corpses yet unburned, rushing forward. Even with the dragons laying waste to the army, and the siege weapons firing as fast as they could be loaded, the flood of dead men was amassing to an ocean.

The towering flames of the first ring－ what had seemed, at first, an impenetrable wall of fire－ had been entirely smothered by the dead rushing the Northern defenses, and burned sporadically in the South.

Only the constant dragonfire reigning from above kept the dead from overwhelming the siege weapons.

Just ten paces ahead of the siege weapons, barrels of pitch began to strike the rear wall of the hill that made up the second ring of defense. The barrels of black ooze splattered against the mound, sometimes taking part of the barricade with it, but soaking the rear wall in pitch.

"Ready the traps!" Grey Worm shouted from atop his destrier. The lieutenants knew to repeat his command down the line, though the pitch barrels were signal enough.

" _H_ _ō_ _u!_ "

There were two lieutenants assigned to every siege weapon. Between each catapult was a large mound of straw, covered over in oiled jute cloth, and layer of snow.

The straw itself, kept dry by the jute, was stacked carefully around five leaking barrels of pitch and loose bits of dragonglass. Burning bright next to each catapult were two ceramic urns, filled with embers glowing white-hot.

At Grey Worm's order, each lieutenant took the handle below his shoulder and heaved, overturning the urns, and the spilling the embers beneath the cloth cover.

"Back!" Grey Worm boomed in High Valyrian, the Unsullied lieutenants repeated his command. When their task was done, the shout came again, " _H_ _ōu!_ "

In groups of four, shields together, the lieutenants backed quickly into the rear shield-wall, and the soldiers behind shifted fluidly to accept them.

Grey Worm urged his chestnut destrier behind the shield-wall. He stood facing North, watching over the three-fold line of Unsullied. Behind his visor guard, Grey Worm's eyes were fixed and motionless as the dead surged forward, occasionally scattered by blazes of dragonfire.

From here, mounted, Grey Worm could see three hay-traps, none of which looked to be burning. The hateful blue eyes of the dead drew closer, overcame the mounds...

There was a slight pulse in the air around him, and then a rapid, uncomfortable tightness in his chest, followed by a sharp, and deafening _crack._

The hay-and-pitch trap directly ahead detonated. The cloth lain over the hay and pitch directed the initial blast not up, but _out_. The forward wall of the dead were scattered, blown back ten paces by the blaze. " _H_ _ōu!_ _H_ _ōu!_ _H_ _ōu!_ "

The oiled hillside ahead of the traps caught, and the flames started crawling North-to-South around Winterfell.

Another pulse, and one of the other traps ignited. Another pulse, and another blast. Down the line, most of the traps began to detonate, one after the other. The dragons were already flying to ignite the first among them that had failed.

After the initial blast, the jute burned up, and left a flaming stack fifty paces high and ten paces across. The hill that had been soaked with pitch barrels burned eagerly.

Behind the Unsullied lines, the _khalasar_ roared together.

For a moment, the army was beaten back, but Grey Worm kept his eyes fixed due North. Behind the flames, a twisting shadow was amassing again. As it had before, a point of darkness appeared in the second ring of fire, exactly where his eyes had been fixed, and before long, more dead flooded over each other, through the flames.

The first ring of defense was a dark memory, consumed and overrun by the dead. The second ring was falling quickly to darkness and dead men. _Not too soon,_ Grey Worm thought determinedly. If they could give the archers _three_ good volleys... that would be near nine-thousand corpses slain before the final Unsullied retreat.

Above, the dragons and their riders continued their circling of the Castle, igniting the remaining traps in the second ring.

The mass of dead men had been thinned some, but still they streamed forward over ever-thickening bridges of twice dead corpses. The darkness spread steadily from the midpoints, towards the towers of flames themselves. The dragons were doubling back, but their fire would not arrive before the dead.

The first corpse to make it past the fire smacked against the shield-wall, hundreds more followed a beat behind.

"Hold!" Grey Worm boomed from atop his mount, and watched as the dead thrashed against the solid, three-fold shield-wall, and amass into a line of thrashing corpses, with _thousands_ more sprinting behind them. On his back, Grey Worm's spear itched to be drawn, but he kept only his reigns in hand.

" _Return!_ " Grey Worm shouted finally.

" _H_ _ō_ _u!_ " The Unsullied let loose a short, collective cry, and pushed forward. Six thousand Unsullied pushing back as one shield around the Dothraki, and the Castle behind them.

The corpses were pushed back three paces, and a volley of dragonglass arrows reigned from the battlements, striking thousands of wights down at once. Some arrows just missed the mark, and hundreds of scattered corpses rushed forward again.

" _H_ _ō_ _u!_ " The spears shot forward and back again with deadly accuracy. The scattered dead dropped by the hundreds.

"Hold!" Grey Worm shouted. The first line of Unsullied reformed the shield-wall, and the dead amassed against it again, faster this time, and thicker. " _Return_!"

" _H_ _ō_ _u!_ " The Unsullied shield-wall pushed forward, and from above, arrows reigned. The spears lashed forward through the shield-wall, each one finding a target in the ever-thickening mass of corpses.

 _It is not enough_ , Grey Worm knew.

The dead would overwhelm the shield-wall with the next strike, if not sooner. The first three fire traps－ not a minute ago towering spouts of flame twenty-paces high－ were falling one-by-one to darkness. Off to the sides, Unsullied soldiers began to scream, hundreds at a time where the void was thick.

"Hold!" Then, not a heartbeat later, "Return!"

" _H_ _ō_ _u!_ " The shield-wall pushed forward. Arrows reigned, and Grey Worm issued his command as they fell. " _First Retreat_!"

" _H_ _ō_ _u!_ " The third line－ the rear line－ of the Unsullied shield-wall turned as one and began streaming steadily behind the protection of the _khalasar_. The horses of the _khalasar_ began to scream, fighting their reigns and rearing, while their Riders pulled their mounts back to let the Unsullied pass through.

"Hold your beasts or die like one!" Qhono shouted.

Behind the _khalasar_ , the third line of Unsullied took their position. They formed a single shield-wall with but two gaps: just five paces outside of the North and South gates. The first line had been hit again by the dead.

"Hold! Return! _Second retreat_!"

" _H_ _ō_ _u!_ " The second line of Unsullied turned, cutting the same paths through the _khalasar._ The lieutenants and their best men did not join the shield-wall waiting behind the Dothraki. Instead, the highest ranking, most skillful Unsullied streamed past, two men abreast at a time, through the Gates of Winterfell.

Mounted atop a great red stallion, Qhono waited to one side of the retreat. One thousand Unsullied had initially held the last defense around the _khalasar,_ while the second and third lines retreated.

Grey Worm could still hear hundreds of his men screaming, dying somewhere in the darkness lacing and twisting through the dragonfire. Behind him, the second line had finished their retreat through the gates, and the first line began to fold in from the edges, following after. They would need time. Two minutes, at least.

The outermost line of Unsullied had been overrun and destroyed. The short screams gathered with the darkness, and from his mounted position, Grey Worm knew that not a single man from forward shield-wall would make it to the Gates.

 _Valar morghulis_...

The dead raced forward, glittering blue eyes fixed on the living. The Unsullied retreat needed more time, not all the soldiers could fit through the gates at once. Grey worm found the Dothraki lieutenant's eye; Qhono had been given orders to stay well in sight of him.

"Protect the retreat!" Grey Worm shouted to Qhono, and urged his uneasy mount behind the _khalasar,_ where the last of the Unsullied had gathered.

The Dothraki lieutenant raised his dragonglass _arakh_ in his right hand. " _Dothraquoy_!"

A deep roar came from the throat of every Rider nearby, and spread through the _khalasar._ The frenzied horses were all turned to face the same direction, and were given their heads.

The red stallion beneath Qhono loped forward, screaming as his Rider pushed him to the outer edge of the _khalasar_ , and Qhono screamed with his red beast. 

All at once, the animals' collective instinct to flee was unleashed like a flash flood. Within seconds, the entire _khalasar_ was riding hard together as one ring, circling Winterfell.

Ululating screams issued from every Rider nearby, and their mounts gained from canter to gallop. The outside edge of the Riders raised their _arakhs_ high in their right hands as the dead surged forward, hacking and slashing while their mounts galloped freely beneath them, instinctively adhering to the herd and sprinting in terror. The _arakhs_ swung freely, hacking away the advancing army of the dead.

Now and then, as Qhono raced atop his red beast, the animal ahead of him would go down, crumpling with a short, desperate scream. Each time, Qhono turned his mount's nose in. The animal beneath him was keen to recede farther from the endless corpses, and leaped of its own accord when an obstacle lay across its path.

From the battlements, the archers would be firing at will, volley after volley, but there was no end to the dead men.

From the darkness beyond _khalasar_ came a booming, broken trumpeting. Then, dragging massive feet heedlessly over a carpet of dead men, enormous creatures charged through the gloom. Mammoths, like shaggy elephants but four times as large. Flesh hung loose off their bones.

 _"The beasts have come_ ," Qhono howled as the mammoth charged forward, flanked by two others. The searing blue eyes of the enormous beasts were twenty paces above, and their long tusks each swept fifty men, and their horses, high into the air with a single sweep. Bellowing, the rotting mammoth corpses plowed through the _khalasar_ without pause.

" _Bows_!" Qhono bellowed. His own voice was lost but to the men riding directly around him, but they picked up the cry. Qhono set his _arkh_ into the leather slip on the forward part of his saddle.

The mammoths were fifty paces ahead, as the stallion ran. The red horse sprinted forward. Qhono loosed his bow, and pulled free one of five arrows: longer and thicker than all the rest. Twenty paces now _._ Qhono twisted in his saddle, put one foot beneath him and kept the other in its stirrup. Ten paces. Five.

Qhono drew the fletching to his cheek and loosed. The great black arrowhead buried itself into the mammoth's eye. The blue fire darkened, and with a final, broken bellow, Qhono heard the mammoth go down behind him.

" _Quoi qoi!_ " The men nearest him shouted.

The other two mammoths were already well behind him. Qhono and his red beast circled West and South around the Castle walls. The _khalasar_ had incredible strength, in numbers and motion, but that motion only went one direction. The beasts were lost to screaming darkness behind him, but the corpses still swarmed forward from every direction.

The second wall of fire still burned low in the Southern defense, illuminating the dead. Thousands on thousands of dead men and women sprinted from the darkness. Like the _khalasar_ , the dead moved in only one direction: forward.

" _Arakhs!_ "

Circling back around the West and South side of Winterfell, Qhono held his bow in his left, freed his _arakh_ with his right. Wheeling his outside arm, he hacked through the dead. The courageous red stallion below him was a war-bred animal, and kept his Rider just to the outside of the _khalasar_ , nimbly dodging the fallen corpses in its path.

All the while, soldiers from the outer edges were taken down in front of him, or heard as a short and broken scream from behind. His mounts nose was turned just inward, and the third ring waned from the outside. On the North and East side of the walls, Qhono sheathed his _arakh_ again. He drew a large arrow from the quiver.

" _Bows! Conquer the beasts!_ "

Qhono rounded the Northeastern portion of the Castle, back around the North wall. Where there had been two mammoths left on the North side, now there were five: two had collapsed, while the other three made short work of killing hundreds.

Scattered around the mammoths, more beasts of legend: giants fifteen-paces tall, Direwolves as big as horses, and ice bears twice as large again. The second ring of fire, along the inside of the hill, had suffocated, and long since given way to the dead.

The eyes of the undead beasts shone in the terrible darkness, high above the swarming of thousands of dead men, all bearing the same cerulean gaze.

The outer defenses had fallen. Only the _khalasar_ remained standing between the North walls and the army of the dead. The braziers atop the walls of Winterfell offered just enough light to see by.

In the gloom just outside the North wall was slaughter. Everywhere.

A white horse ripped in half by the corpses of two wolves. An ice bear with no eyes, only half a snout and jaws, mauling blindly and swinging paws the size of a horse's head, tipped with sharp claws. Giants and mammoths turning horses, men, and their dying screams to nothing but stains of red beneath their feet.

The undead beasts killed many before a single, well-placed arrow brought them down. Two more beasts emerged, bellowing from the darkness, as each one died. The bitter tang of blood was thick in the air, and the red stallion began to scream and falter, hooves slipping in the icy wet blood soaking the ground.

A barrel of pitch exploded on the ground ahead of Qhono. The third ring of defense, the _khalasar_ did not exist anywhere but behind him and his red stallion. The North gate was closed. _Turn now or die._

Qhono yanked his mounts left reign hard and shouted behind.

"Retreat! To the South Gates!" The Riders closest to him shouted the same. Screaming, his stallion ran its shoulder into the horse next to him, forcing the next beast to turn, and the next after that.

There was only enough time to see the enormous, sweeping tusks raking down the Riders nearest to him, before Qhono and his mount were cast fifty paces into the darkness. The stallions broken body collapsed on top of him, and the corpses swarmed over in the next moment.

The boned fingers pulled him apart, blue eyes staring into his own gaping brown. His dying scream was drowned in blood, and the clattering of bones. 


	27. The Long Night (III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Theon holds with the archers on the South wall. Jon and Rhaegal fight an airborne battle against the Night King and Viserion. Grey Worm and the Unsullied defend the archers._

One arrow after another. _Nock. Draw. Loose._

It was a rhythm in Theon's body, as much as it was a dim shouting from the commander nearest him.

The first ring of fire already burned low in the South... Dead men flooded forward, as swift and deadly as a rip tide. The sharp, broken screams of Dothraki and Unsullied rose from the darkness.

Some of those Unsullied had become friendly with him; he wondered if White Bat and Māzmak yet lived. Over a pint, the former slaves had taught Theon a phrase that all Unsullied knew. No matter how great one's fear: one thing was certain.

 _Valar morghulis,_ Theon thought, and felt braver for it. _All men must die_. With his jaw set, and each of his arrows finding a mark, Theon did his part in slowing the rivulets of dead men creeping steadily towards the Castle.

"Barrels, loose!" The commanders shouted, and the barrelmen obliged. The catapults flung the pitch out, where it would strike the second ring of defense: the tall earthen hill.

A short while later, the pulse, tremor, and _boom_ of the first fire trap. In the North, a towering spout of flame shot skyward. Two more followed, then others. By the time the explosions circled around to the South, the ones in the North had long darkened.

Theon exhaled the terror screaming within him into the fletching of his next arrow, and shot it as far from from himself as he could.

"Ready the South Gate!" Theon heard, and his stomach twisted.

There was only one thing to be ready for: closing. If the _South Gate_ was to be readied, that meant the North Gate would already be shut. In the courtyard below the battlements, Dothraki were still streaming in, some with their horses or leathers aflame.

The screaming corpse of a raven descended from the darkness above, claws grasping for his eyes. Ducking, Theon screamed, "Dead ravens!"

The men around him began to shout something of the same, and anywhere Theon looked archers were holding their bows in one hand, and with the other trying to beat off mottled, dead birds with glittering blue eyes. The scent of blood came sharp and hot, and Theon kept his eyes low, with his free arm bent over his forehead.

"Shield your eyes!" The men were screaming.

 _What do I do?_ Theon thought, panicking. The ravens' beaks and claws opened small, then larger wounds in his neck and scalp. "Shield your eyes!"

Blood poured down his face by the time the birds backed off. Tentatively, he raised his eyes, which widened quickly.

Above his head, each dead raven was grappling in the air with a living duplicate. An airborne battle between thousands of great black birds, living and dead. Before Theon could look long, his commander's voice brought him back to the battle.

" _Archers_ , reform! Nock!"

Ravens, dead or near dead, fell from the sky and thudded to the bloodied stone of the battlements. Slipping a bit in the blood of birds and men, Theon scurried back to the forward edge of the wall, and nocked an arrow.

" _Fire at will_!"

The second ring of flames had fallen already. Dead men were piling one atop the other, racing for the South Gate. Foul beasts of legend followed after: dozens of Direwolves and ice bears larger than horses. There, not twenty paces off, a Giant, with a great frozen gash in his chest, lurching forward one slow, booming step at a time.

Theon's body moved without his consent; he nocked one of the larger arrows, drew the fletching to his cheek... _loosed_ ; the great arrow buried itself into the great blue eye of the Giant. The soldiers around him bellowed as the enormous creature went down, just five paces outside the wall. Another five paces back, the Army gained inches at a time, despite thousands of arrows reigning down on them.

Hugging tight against the walls, the last of the Dothraki galloped madly for the gate. _Nock. Draw. Loose._ All around him, near ten thousand archers did the same, holding the dead back inches from the Dothraki, or failing to... Wights fell, and fell again, and again... but the Army advanced forward another foot for every arrow loosed.

The Giant wight Theon had destroyed was lost under the advancing Army.

" _Archers_! Support the retreat! _Close the gate_!"

Theon heard it, and knew what it meant, but he did not slow in his rhythm; _nock, draw, loose..._ With all fire on the Dead, just ahead of the walls; the Dothraki within twenty paces just managed through the Gate. Not a moment behind, Theon heard the pounding of the Dead battering against the gate. _Nock. Draw. Loose._

Whatever Dothraki remained outside the Wall were quickly consumed by the ocean of corpses. " _Barrels, loose_!" The catapults fired again. The smashing of barrels striking the ground, just outside the walls, was lost to the roar of battle.

" _Fire bolts_! Nock. Draw. _Loose_!"

The third ring of fire sputtered to life, as flaming arrows ignited puddles of pitch, which caught the leathers and furs of fallen soldiers and blue-eyed corpses alike. Before long, the smell of cooked meat was heavy in the air. The wide, low burning ring of fire whisked up a frothing steam. Past fog and flame, there was only darkness.

The hoard outside the third ring halted suddenly at the outer edge. Past the drifting mist, over the flames, thousand of ice-blue eyes winked in the darkness, dead and still.

A sudden, grotesque silence fell upon the battlefield.

The Gates were closed; the living were shut within the Walls of Winterfell, and the Dead without. Even the storm began to quiet; the flakes rushing about the air thinned and calmed as Theon watched. The flames burned low before the silent Army, rising higher by the moment.

With the hoarde stalled at the outer edge, the sputtering flames had time enough to bleed together, into a more solid mass. Still, the flames burned sparingly compared to the other defenses; in many patches, it did not burn at all.

 _Why have they stopped?_ Theon did not want to ask himself the question, but no amount of fire had stopped the dead before.

"Nock! Draw! Loose!" The string of commands was heard by every soldier in Winterfell. Without thought, he obliged.

In the dead quiet, Theon could hear the snapping of the fire, the dull plunk of a thousand arrows meeting their marks. A thousand pairs of blue eyes darkened beyond the low-burning fire. Thousands more still watched, from just out of range, fading back into the pitch darkness.

From that void, a Direwolf stepped forward. The black beast had glittering blue eyes, flesh hanging loosely from its face, and a great gash in its heart; around the gash, the flesh had frozen into a gruesome mass.

On the wolf's back was mounted a man with pale, blue skin. This corpse was different from the rest; his icy-blue flesh seemed frozen in death for a thousand years, and unmarred by any wounds. Another Whitewalker appeared, an old man with a long, white beard riding the freshly-killed corpse of an ice bear.

A knot took Theon's gut, terror gripped his heart in a cold, dead hand. He wanted to drop his eyes, to turn and hide, but he could not tear them away from the Whitewalker's awful gaze. Arrows loosed without order. "Hold!" The commanders shouted; each arrow fell ten or more paces short of a mark.

More Whitewalkers appeared, riding the recently slain mounts of Direwolves and Ice Bears. They formed their own ring around the Castle, just within the light of the flames. As one, the Whitewalkers raised their hands up, past their shoulders.

With a sickening hiss, the ring of fire pinched in before each Whitewalker. The flames died as a stream flowed; hissing tendrils curving slowly through the flames. The spiral of darkeness spread, until the entire ring of fire was lost. Darkness hung heavy, in every direction.

The Whitewalkers and their Army were lost to the shadows. Any light within the grounds came from the braziers, or the dragonfire still reigning down sporadically in the North. Not even eyes of the dead showed in the void beyond the walls.

The dead raven at Theon's feet stirred suddenly, cawing madly as its icy blue eyes snapped open. Near a thousand ravens, who had just died in the archers' defense rose again, fluttering with instant ferocity, with claws grasping for the closest pair of eyes.

"Shit!" Theon lashed blindly with his hand and caught the bird by one wing; the raven's beak and claws tore at the leathers over his arm, then the arm itself.

Another raven besieged him, and Theon grabbed it by the foot. Shouting, he squatted low to the stone and put a boot down on each raven, while a third pecked viciously at the wounds in the back of his neck.

Taking dragonglass dagger from his belt, Theon heard a broken, terrible roar from the North. So loud that it drowned out the archers' screaming; a roar so thunderous it could only be a dragon. Pressing the blade into the birds at his feet, he grappled the third with one hand.

A clamor rose outside the walls, and Theon knew that every fallen soldier yet unburned was rising to fight again.

From the North, men were shouting. From everywhere, the roar of the advancing army: pounding of thousands of feet, broken bellows from the dead beasts. Somewhere in the darkness, the broken roar of a dragon came again, louder.

When five ravens had fallen to his dagger, Theon raised his eyes, and saw he was lucky to have both. Fresh trails of blood poured down the sides of his face. 

Along the North wall, the mutilated corpse of a dragon unleashed a spout of blue flame along the battlements. Archers disappeared in those flames, or were blown off the North wall altogether.

"Nock!" Without thought, Theon did as he was bid, pulling his eyes from the North wall and back to his quiver. "Draw! _Loose_!"

Theon fired nearly straight below, the endless army was amassing against the walls. The braziers burning above illuminated only ten gloomy paces outside the walls. As often as not, the blue-eyed corpse Theon looked upon was Dothraki or Unsullied, covered in dark blood and black singe marks.

A flash of bitter cold; a dragon flew not five paces above his head, and another burst of blue fire razed along the West wall. Theon's eyes stayed locked on the dragon's corpse as it sailed past him into the darkness beyond.

"Scorpion!" The command came from nearby, and Theon turned his eyes to the massive crossbow. Their best chance against the Night King's dragon wight.

The weapon was unmanned. The men nearest to it were laying on the ground, their bloody hands cradling the ruins of their faces, most still plagued by the fluttering corpses of ravens. From this direction, Theon was the next in line to man the Scorpion.

Before Theon registered any decision on his part, his feet had carried him ten paces to the enormous crossbow, and he took the firing mechanism into his hands.

Ignoring the clattering of the Army against the wall below, Theon stared into the darkness. The dead dragon had disappeared to the South. The storm had eased, but the darkness outside the walls was thicker, and closer than ever. Theon's eyes scanned the void, and the sounds of battle faded around him.

Something seized his arm from behind, and he turned, lashing out blindly. The Dothraki woman easily caught his arm before the dagger buried itself in her eye.

The woman clutched her other ruined, bleeding arm to her chest. The blue and black war paint over her dark eyes, smeared with blood, was nearly as fearsome as her dark eye. A long black braid, laced with tiny, golden bells gleamed in the brazier light.

" _Can you do this_?" The copper-skinned woman asked with a stern severity, glancing at the Scorpion. Theon felt himself nod, and she returned the gesture. "Remember, _three_ dragons fly. Only shoot _one!_ " The Dothraki woman released his arm roughly.

Nodding to himself, Theon turned his attention back to the sky. In the South, the screams of three dragons rolled from the dark. When a dragon flew in front of him－ _a clear shot_... － Theon thought of nothing but pulling the trigger, until the golden fire poured from the dragon's mouth. The Dothraki woman's stern warning echoed in his head, again and again.

_Three dragons. Only shoot one._

The release on the Scorpion rested softly against his finger. Another dragon, larger than the first, and spewing flames of gold swooped to the Southeast.

 _If that's the Queen's dragon..._ then the smaller dragon, doubling back from the South, was Jon's. After they had appeared, the dragons remained in sight. They stayed within the light, pouring flames just outside the walls as the dead piled higher.

From directly above the smaller dragon, the one called Rhaegal, the third beast dropped from the sky, claws outstretched.

***

The sensation of a cold blade against his heart sharpened until Jon gasped.

"Down!" He shouted, and not a moment later felt an incredible force, and a sharp pain as Viserion's claws lashed against Rhaegal's back. While Jon grunted, Rhaegal screamed. They had not been flying very high, and the force of the blow forced the dragon to smash briefly against the ground, before launching himself back up into the air.

With each great pound of Rhaegal's wings, Jon felt a searing, icy pain in his back, just below his shoulders. As the dragon flew up and up, Jon's ears rang, and his vision blurred to nothing.

Jon came-to high above the storm, gasping.

The nearly full moon gleamed above, and all sight an sound of the battle below was lost to clouds, lit to a silvery-blue. From the bank of swirling clouds below, the corpse of Viserion emerged, with the Night King on his back.

Roaring, Rhaegal folded his wings and dove straight for them. In his heart, Jon felt a burning hatred shot through with a cold, terrible sadness.

Within a heartbeat, Jon could see the cold smile on the Night King's lips.

"Dracarys!" Jon screamed, and the red-gold of Rhaegal's flame enveloped Viserion and the Night King.

Rhaegal banked sharply, and Jon clung on. There was time enough only to see the frozen, gaping wound in Viserion's heart before the dead beast collided with Rhaegal's chest.

Flattening himself against the saddle, Jon only clung on and listened. Screams and broken bellows, flashes of blue and orange flame, sickening thuds... and cold, stabbing pains told Jon of the battle between the two beasts.

 _A losing battle._ Jon knew it. The dragon wight would not burn, as the other wights would, not even in dragonfire. _A corpse can take as many wounds as it needed to..._

With a scream, Rhaegal pushed hard against Viserion with both of his legs, and broke free.

"Dive!" Jon shouted, and Rhaegal obliged, abandoning the fight against Viserion with a desperate screech. As the dragon dropped, Jon felt a horrible realization take hold of him.

Rhaegal was dying. Jon could feel every cold, bleeding wound the dragon bore as if he himself bore them: two deep wounds in his back and one in his chest.

They were falling; the pain in his chest built until Jon was stiff and gasping, clutching his chest while his blood went cold.

They fell through the cloud bank, at the last moment Rhaegal spread his wings and caught the air, agony wrenched his upper back, and Jon screamed. The dragon screamed with him, weakly, and beat his wings twice before crashing to the icy ground. Even having slowed some, Jon was nearly ripped from his seat by the impact.

Ripping himself free of his leather holds, Jon tore his goggles off as he scrambled down the dragon's shoulder and ran to Rhaegal's face.

With the dragon's eye fixed on him, the light within it faded. From far off to the North came the broken, mournful scream of Drogon. The last dragon.

"No!" Jon shouted.

With his hand on the dragon's cheek, he closed his eyes and prayed to any Gods who were listening, _prayed_ that his touch would summon the beast back, as Jon himself had been. The warmth of Rhaegal was already fading beneath his gloved hand. With narrowed eyes, Jon turned his face North.

The dim, faraway glow of Winterfell was near a half-mile off, and provided just enough light to see at a dozen wights sprinting from that direction. All the rage in Jon's heart burst out of his mouth in a fearsome shout.

" _Die!_ "

The first two corpses Jon cut clean in half while he pulled Longclaw from its sheath. The more corpses he cut down, the more appeared from the darkness to the North.

 _You will not die alone, beast,_ Jon thought resolutely as he cut down one wight after another. Ahead, hundreds of the Dead rushed forward at once, and Jon faced his death with his sword held high.

A fearsome shout came from behind him, a single word, wrought with defiant rage. "Dracarys!"

A burst of golden light bloomed against the ground before him. The corpses were incinerated in the dragonfire, or blown ten paces back in the rushing gale of Drogon's wings.

The last dragon hovered five paces above. Mouth agape, Jon sheathed his sword and caught the clinking chain hanging off Drogon's leg as it swung past; some length of it dragged loose on the ground. Chain in hand, he shouted.

"Go!" _I'm sorry, Rhaegal..._

The reaching hands of a hundred corpses were not an inch behind him as Drogon beat his wings, roaring.

As the dragon flew higher, the force drawing Jon to the ground grew unbearably strong. With both hands and feet on the chain, Jon shouted, and slipped down several rungs at a time. His feet had found the last rung when the force eased.

Drogon leveled out, soaring straight, and Jon climbed the wide links of the chain, up and over the dragon's shoulder.

Daenerys did not as much as turn to see if Jon had made the ascent. Ahead of them, the Night King was flying Viserion straight for the South Wall.

***

Theon had watched Jon's dragon fall. He had felt the luff of Drogon's wings as the Queen vanished into darkness with dizzying speed. Two living dragons went down, but only one rose again.

Theon felt numb, not afraid, to see the Night King and the dragon wight sailing towards him.

The blue flames leaked erratically from gashes ripped in the dragon's throat. Only half of its bottom jaw remained, gaping open, sending a wash of blue fire that consumed half the archers on the South wall.

The dragon corpse curved off ahead of Theon, and his fingers itched against the release. As it often did, Ned's Stark's voice reminded him: _"When you hold a bow, lad, there are only two types of shots: clean shots, and shots you don't take..."_

Much to his own shame, Theon had not always heeded the good words his surrogate father had taught him. _It's not too late, boy,_ Ned would tell him.

The Night King and his dragon banked East, circling around back to the South.

A clap on the shoulder pulled his eye, and he found the fierce gaze of the Dothraki woman. She said nothing, only nodded to him determinedly and began to turn away.

"What's your name?" Theon heard himself ask, without taking his eyes from the wight.

"Khava," she said, and glanced back at the dragon wight. "Brave man," she added, her voice hesitant, despite that she was shouting. Theon met her dark eye. "Thank you."

She turned, shouting something to the other soldiers, who might yet survive the Night.

The dragon was flying low, the blue fire building in its throat, spilling from the gashes. Theon grinned wickedly as it came for him.

"Come on you fucker!" Theon shouted, eyes bulging. _Valar morghulis!_ He kept his finger motionless on the trigger, but his body swayed madly with his cry. "Come and _get me_!"

Men began to scramble to his left and right, in the preemptive attempt to avoid the inevitable blaze.

Theon stayed put. He kept his eye on the mark. The Scorpion bolt was as long as he was, and near as heavy, tipped with a head-sized arrowhead of obsidian.

The dragon wight flew nearer, the half-jaw hanging wide as blue flames poured messily from its mouth. _Not yet..._

Theon could see the outline of the Night King, between the hole-ridden wings of the dragon. The beast flew sloppily; it looked barely able to keep itself aloft.

The corners of the Night King's eyes were turned up in a cruel smile, but Theon returned to the creature a wild, reckless grin.

With the lightest pressure from his finger, the bolt loosed from the Scorpion. It buried itself halfway into the dragon's chest, and the enormous, glittering blue eyes of the undead beast darkened forever.

He howled, raising a fist high and exulting as the dragon's corpse careened straight towards him.

"All men must die!"

Suddenly, and for the first time since his boyhood, there was no pain.

***

When the dragon wight fell, every solider around Grey Worm boomed, but it did not ease the sadness in his heart.

Grey Worm had known Viserion since he was no larger than a dog, and now... the dragon crashed and draped brokenly over the South Wall, the corpses of the dead began to swarm up it without a moment's pause.

Worse was that Grey Worm had felt the tremor of the wall cracking beneath the impact; and the Night King, wherever he had been thrown from the dragon's back, was nowhere in sight.

"Unsullied!" Grey Worm shouted, "To the breach! Protect the archers!"

" _Hōu!_ " The Unsullied in the courtyard followed him, racing up the scaffolding and onto the battlements with deadly, uniform speed. At the top of the stair, the men held together in groups of two. To either side of the broken dragon, they held.

By then, the Dead were piling up on the battlements as they careened straight forward, over the dragon, and into the courtyard below. Before long, the dragon's flesh was invisible beneath the clambering dead. There was a scraping _crunch_ , as the damaged wall beneath gave way inches at a time, holding, but not for long.

The deafening roar of Drogon preceded the golden flames, scouring and illuminating the endless hoard below the South Wall. Each blaze bathed the army in golden light, before falling quickly again to darkness. The blaze gave the Unsullied time enough to push the dead back towards the breach.

" _Hold! Return!_ " Grey Worm shouted again and again. The shield-wall－ two shields tall and dozens deep－ was all that kept the flood of dead men from washing the battlements clean of the living. "Protect the archers!" Grey Worm shouted now and again.

" _Hōu_!" The Unsullied boomed with each push of the shield-wall, with each lance of their spear, and in response to every order Grey Worm shouted above the fray. There was no sense in counting how many corpses his spear took down.

Men and women, dead for weeks if not longer, with flesh rent and hard frozen wherever they had been gutted; Dothraki covered in dark, congealing blood, some that he had known, if only by face, and five times as many copper-skinned corpses that he had not; Unsullied... drenched in blood, their armor broken... soldiers Grey Worm had known by name since he was a child...

Some were missing limbs, others their skin in its entirety. Some had half a jawbone, some none at all; each one bore the same sickening blue fire in their eyes.

" _Die_ ," the blue eyes of the dead seemed to scream. " _Die_!" And they did, while the swarming mass surging over the dragon's corpse grew to a dense and bristling mob. The shield-wall lost feet each time a man fell.

When a shield in front went down, the Unsullied just behind him slammed his own shield into position, while the other, who remained, took half a step back. A seamless replacement, but one that could not go on much longer; the Dead were too many, and Drogon's fire alone was not enough to thin the flood. " _Hold! Return!_ "

" _Hōu_!" But the archers had recovered, and were protected for the time being. Every Unsullied would die to ensure the archers stayed safe from the Army, rushing over each other. The mass of the dead was twice as large again as the dragon they climbed.

A slight trembling came with a scraping crash, and the mass of corpses shifted slightly. The damaged wall below dragon and Dead men gave a few more inches.

" _Hold! Return!_ "

" _Hōu_!"

" _Back_!" Grey Worm boomed, and the Unsullied line backed three fluid steps.

The broken wall beneath the writhing mass gave way.

At once, a thousand wights spilled into the courtyard, ready to consume the soldiers below them, until a spout of dragonfire scattered the first wave. A great, roaring battle cry came from the Northmen and Dothraki below.

"For the Dawn!" The Northmen cried. "The prince is riding!" The Dothraki screamed with them.

The Unsullied behind him cried out together, " _Mhysa kivio dārilaros issa!_ " _Mother is the Princess who was Promised._

"Protect the archers!" Grey Worm shouted, keeping his eyes up. The battle cry below turned to screaming.

Direwolves and ice bears crashed through the breach in the South wall. The Dead raced up the scaffold from the courtyard below, and climbed the broken walls ahead. 


	28. The Long Night (IV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ser Brienne leads the Northern army within the walls of Winterfell, along with Jaime and Podrick._

Ser Brienne, and the Northern troops under her command, had yet only _listened;_ blind and helpless to the carnage of a losing battle, drawing closer to the walls that surrounded them.

In the agonizing wait, she shared more than a few tense looks with Jaime and Pod, but mostly she kept her eyes on whatever she could see of the battle; ravens besieged the archers and fell dead by the thousands to the cobblestone; the North gate closed first, hours early; the dragon wight's icy breath reigned heavy on the walls; soldiers moved up to the scaffolding to the battlements, and took up fallen bows as quick as they were able.

_"Good. Always keep your eyes loose, especially in battle,"_ Ser Goodwin's voice commended her. Her long-dead mentor's voice rang clear to her mind, stern as ever, even in praise; Goodwin's tone had never matched the kindness in his eye. _"Let them spend their strength, while you save your own. Wait and watch, girl, wait and watch..."_

It was difficult, even from her central position within Winterfell, to _watch_ the battle unfolding outside the walls... but she could hear it well enough.

The roars of beasts came from the North; most terrifying of all, the broken trumpeting of the mammoths, which Jon Snow had said must be destroyed _before_ they reach the walls... or there would be no living for any of them.

That high, foul bellowing and the pounding of the mammoths' feet usually came near enough to the wall that the earth trembled; so close that Brienne was _certain_ the wall would come down in the next moment. _No amount of soldiers can take down a mammoth,_ Jon Snow had informed her with a grim certainty.

With endless flashes of red-gold fire, the dragons managed to wreath the beasts in the flame before－ most frequently _just_ before－ the mammoths could reduce the wall to rubble. At first the dragons fought together in the North, but as the Army spread around Winterfell, Jon and his dragon turned to support the South wall, while the Queen the Winged Shadow held the North.

Brienne watched with wide eyes as Drogon snatched one of the mammoths by its back, and dropped it quickly. From the crash, and stomach-churning caterwaul, Brienne knew the first mammoth had struck down at least one other as it fell. The red-gold of the dragonfire consumed them both as Drogon passed overhead, banking sharply as soon as it was done.

The darkness was so close to the castle walls that it was obvious whe Jon Snow and his dragon vanished to the South. Not long after, a strangled scream came from Drogon, painfully loud. Brienne thought at first that the beast had been struck down.

At once the Queen's dragon turned, pumping his wings in a frenzy and sending a wash of fresh air into the courtyard. Within seconds, it seemed, the dragon was lost to the darkness to the South. Pod and Jaime turned to her with grim faces, while the roar of battle closed in around the walls. _Where are they?_ If the dragons had fallen...

A dragon plunged then from the Southern sky, flying straight for the South wall; the long-dead beast's wings was riddled with holes. Ser Brienne was about to wonder, again, where the other two had gone, when her mentor's voice lashed at her.

_"There's no time for questions in battle,"_ Ser Goodwin had taught her, " _Do_ , girl, or die wondering."

"To the South wall!" Ser Brienne cried; whether the dragon wight fell to the Scorpion mounted there or not, the South would need the army's support.

From her central position, it took Ser Brienne no longer to lead the army to the South wall than anywhere else. The line reformed neatly to either side of her; each soldier faced the South. Pod and Jaime took their positions by her side, and she spared each of them a tense look as the roar of the undead dragon shook the earth at her feet.

When the Scorpion loosed, and the dragon wight crashed over the South wall, Brienne freed _Oathkeeper_ at last from its sheath.

"Ready!" She was relieved that her shout sounded brave and strong, despite the knot in her stomach.

The Northern soldiers drew eagerly. The Dothraki that had survived the retreat hollered and raised their bows to the sky.

Now it was the North's turn to protect the Riders; the Northern line, swords and shields, formed a defense around the mounted Dothraki.

_Damn,_ Brienne thought, inspecting the fallen dragon. Its back was bare, and the Night King was nowhere in sight.

Jon Snow himself had told Brienne everything there was to know of the Dead, and Ser Brienne knew that they would swarm up and over the dragon's corpse. Time seemed to slow while she waited for the dead to swarm over the fallen dragon.

_Let them come,_ Brienne thought, and raised her sword to a ready position. "Stand your ground!" Brienne shouted, and the army at her back roared.

Finally, the first of the Dead's cruel blue eyes peaked over the wall, then crashed to the ground in front of her, Brienne roared; the army at her back echoed her cry

The Dead clambered over the dragon, fell rapidly to dragonglass arrows reigning from above, skewered themselves on the spiked barricade running along the inside of the wall.

It seemed hours before _Oathkeeper_ cut down its first wight: a cerulean-eyed Dothraki; the corpse's ravaged copper skin had turned to black beneath the frosted blood. Grunting, Brienne freed her sword and stifled a gag. A cloying scent, of blood and burnt leather, grew headier with each wight she destroyed.

Above, at last, a flash of golden fire. The Dragon Queen and her beast of legend had returned to the fight, _alone_... Drogon kept a high and constant speed, banking sharply in random directions, concentrating the dragonfire just below the South Wall.

Screaming, grunting, and kicking back wights, Ser Brienne watched while _Oathkeeper_ cut down one after another. She killed dozens in minutes, and took no wounds.

_Keep your eyes loose, girl, loose!_... In her trained peripheral, Brienne glimpsed the flash of an enormous spear, pale blue and rocketing from the ground just outside the South wall. The dragonfire darkened, and the great beast Drogon folded his wings and twisted at an impossible angle, barely dodging the fell weapon. The Targaryen Queen's silver hair and gleaming chainmail flashed once in the brazier light.

Corpse after corpse fell to _Oathkeeper;_ the spiked barricade－ running along the inside edge of the wall－ was nearly buried by the Dead. Despite the dragonfire, the archers, and the Northern line, the swarm grew steadily thicker.

The dragon wight was quickly obscured by the writhing mass of bones, loose flesh, and blazing blue eyes. The wall beneath shifted with a loud _crunch_. It would fall in minutes, if not sooner.

"Hold your ground!" Brienne hollered between enemies, and the men closest to her echoed her call. "Stand ready!"

At her left, Jaime bore an Unsullied shield strapped over his right arm, dragonglass blade in his left. To her right, Pod fought with the same, only his shield was of Westerosi make. Ser Brienne bore no shield herself, for she fought better without one; the might and length of _Oathkeeper_ was shield enough.

Wights and blue eyes flashed everywhere, their flesh in varying states of decay. _Find the Whitewalkers,_ Brienne thought determinedly, keeping her eyes loose as she cut the endless wights down.

Above, the flashes of dragonfire vanished, and darkness consumed the sky. In seconds, the hoard rushing the line of Northmen had doubled. The wall shifted again, ready to give at any moment. Dead soldiers beyond counting were bristling as they rushed over the dead dragon, which itself was long past hidden beneath the twisting mass.

"Steady!" Brienne shouted as the dying screams of men preceded the sharp tang of blood in the air.

The wall gave way. A thousand wights piled to the ground. They scrambled frantically over one another, with dead blue eyes fixed forward.

A shock of dragonfire scattered the flood of the Dead, and in doing so, saved the lives of every man and woman on the front line. All manner of men cheered something different.

"Dragon Queen!" Brienne found herself shouting, and she was not alone. Podrick echoed her cry, and others as well. Another pale blue spear shot skyward, missing the Drogon's heart by mere inches. _Eyes loose, girl_... something was wrong. The endless wights streaming from the breach was _slowing_... and then they stopped coming at all.

An icy mist poured through the broken wall, rolling fluidly over the broken body of the dragon. From the mist appeared two great blue eyes, followed by the ravaged face of a Direwolf, black as night where it did not show bare flesh or bone, and carrying a creature that could only be a Whitewalker.

The old man's icy blue skin was tight on its face; pale hair hung thin from its head and chin, white as snow. A cruel smile played on the creature's frozen lips.

_Kill the Whitewalkers_ , she meant to scream it, but the cry died in her throat. Brienne felt herself frozen in the foul creature's gaze. An unnatural quiet pervaded the battlefield.

More Direwolves, and ice bears bearing the same foul load on their backs followed slowly after first. An sickness took her then, like she was freezing from the inside out, and it sapped her courage.

The Whitewalkers drove their beasts forward with slow, familiar arrogance; each one wore the same cruel smirk on their frozen visages; the sight of those wretched, self-serving grins arose a rage in her that challenged her fear.

The archers were screaming, and dead and dying ravens fell to the ground.

As she had for years, she poured all her doubt, her terror, and her rage into a battle cry. Ser Brienne raised her sword. "Kill the Whitewalkers!"

The army roared, and the wights surged forward again from the breach, around their Masters and the foul beasts they rode, who themselves moved unhurriedly.

At once, hundreds of wights fell, and one of the Whitewalkers burst in a shatter of frost; the astonishingly large bear that it rode crumpled beneath it. _A dragonglass arrow_ , Brienne realized slowly. A strange hesitation in the clamor of battle carried her cry far and wide.

"Take them _DOWN_!" Brienne shouted.

For one satisfying moment, she saw the cruel smirks on the Whitewalkers' faces falter. The beasts bearing them began to charge, and not a beat later, they smiled again. More monsters－ most bearing riders－ crashed through the breach, trampling soldiers dead and living alike as they charged.

The creatures moved with stilted, grotesque movements that carried them straight through the line, ripping to pieces any soldiers in their path. Their jaws clamped shut around living men and shook them madly, sending bits of soldiers and armor flying through the air.

Blood reigned sporadically from above, while hundreds of soldiers were torn to pieces. The dark liquid lay thick, steaming over the frosted ground; blood streaked her face and matted her hair; none of it was her own. Dozens of wights fell to her sword.

The first Whitewalker to step through the breach, still astride the dark wolf, charged straight for her. _Wait and watch, girl..._

The Direwolf ran straight, heedless, and at the last moment Brienne stepped lightly to one side, swinging _Oathkeeper_ with a sharp grunt. The Direwolf's head came clean from its neck. The Whitewalker took the crash landing on one knee, and rose neatly after it fell, eyes locked to her, until Jaime's blade took it through the back. The shatter of ice was again followed by a pause in the battle, as hundreds of wights nearby fell at once.

Dozens of death screams, coming suddenly from behind, demanded her to turn.

A great, sweeping paw the size of a mule's head, tipped in long, dark claws tore through five soldiers just behind her. The ice bear lurched forward, its other paw lashing out.

Pivoting, Brienne ducked and swung _Oathkeeper_ hard from the opposite direction. Half the bear's front leg came off with her strike. The beast stumbled before rising again on its stump, bellowing. From above, an arrow took the bear straight through its eye, and it crumpled before her.

The Whitewalker on its back crashed to her feet, kneeling. The tight, blue skin of its face was pulled back in a hateful smile. With a roar, Brienne swept _Oathkeeper_ straight over its shoulders. The Whitewalker shattered into a cloud of icy dust, stinging her eyes.

Another odd pause in the clamor followed, longer and heavier than before, as hundreds of wights and a handful of riderless beasts fell together.

"Kill the Walkers!" Brienne shouted, taking advantage of the momentary quiet. There was no battle cry to follow, only more short and broken screams as dozens more beasts carved red paths through the army of the living.

Behind what remained of the line, the Dothraki were still mounted, loosing arrows rapidly. Their horses had no need for urging to avoid the Dead. High on the battlements, the archers had recovered, and every arrow easily found a mark at the breach. Corpses fell by the hundreds, but more poured endlessly through the broken wall.

_Not endlessly_ , Brienne thought, swinging _Oathkeeper_ with a savage grunt, _with the Queen's army, we had as many men as the Night King..._ But there must be fifty beasts of more within the walls by now, each killing dozens to hundreds of soldiers before they fell. More still charged through the breach.

The dead beasts bristled with arrowshafts, but only a clean shot through the eye or the heart would destroy them. "Kill the Whitewalkers!" Brienne screamed, but her cry was lost even to Jaime and Pod in the chaos.

The army of the living would lose this battle before much longer.

Slain wights piled ten paces high inside of the breach, forcing the Dead who remained to the Army to clamber over the hillock of corpses. Another Whitewalker, astride the largest bear she had yet seen, charged through the breach. The way the creature on its back stared, Brienne knew it would come for her.

To either side, Jaime and Pod had been pushed aside a few paces by the fray. _Good_ , Brienne thought. The bear charged; wretched blue eyes of both beast and master fixed on her.

Setting her jaw, Ser Brienne waited to the last moment, then dropped to one knee and held _Oathkeeper_ straight out. As the bear leapt, the Valyrian steel plunged deep into its chest. The bear crumpled, taking her down beneath its incredible mass.

With a broken scream, Brienne felt her body twist and break. The pain faded quickly to a dull tingling as the bear went still, crushing her from the waist down. The blue eyes of the Whitewalker rose over the ice bear's back, smiling cruelly down at her, with its icy blade poised to pierce her chest. The image blurred.

The clamor of battle quieted. A peaceful, painless silence brushed her eyelids closed.

***

"NO!" Podrick screamed as Ser Brienne fell. Dimly, he heard Jaime's scream of fury. Switching his feet, Pod fought his way forward through the wights. It barely took him a minute to fight his way to her, but it seemed an hour.

" _Ser!_ " Pod screamed.

Ser Brienne was half-crushed beneath the ice bear. The Whitewalker loomed over her, blade in hand.

" _No_!" Pod launched himself forward recklessly, and watched two dark blades pierce the Whitewalker's chest.

Tears streamed freely down Jaime's face; he twisted his sword, and the Whitewalker erupted into a shower of ice.

With the great body of the ice bear acting as cover, Pod had enough pause in battle to lean down and touch Brienne's face. She looked asleep, except for the blood coating her, head to waist, and she did not wake to his touch.

"Ser, wake up," Pod begged. There was a flush in her cheeks, but he could not tell if she was breathing, beneath her armor. " _Ser!_ "

"Pod!" Jaime's panicked shout came from behind him. Glancing behind, he saw Jaime struggling against more wights than he could handle alone, and Pod knew Ser would curse him a fool if he let Jaime die, just to hover uselessly over her broken form.

_"Even the best soldiers can fall in battle Podrick,"_ Brienne had told him nearly every day of late, and Pod had known she spoke of herself. _"If you stop to mourn the fallen before the battle is won, you're sure to join them."_

"POD!" Jaime shouted, more urgently.

Screaming, Pod lurched up, swinging his sword. With two practiced steps, he cut through three wights crowding Jaime.

The two men fought back-to-back, holding in front of Brienne. The bear's body shielded them somewhat from behind. All around him, Pod saw dead or dying men, and blood laying thick on the ground.

The line had disintegrated. Northmen fled and died before the corpses of beasts and men. The Dead would take them all, unless someone rallied them back to their task.

"Kill the Whitewalkers!" Pod heard himself shouting in an imitation of Ser's commanding shout, but it was lost to the screaming and clamor of battle.

_"Look for a weakness_ ," Podrick heard in Ser Brienne's stern voice. " _Every_ enemy has a weakness, Podrick. Either its something they _try_ to hide, or something they _forget_ to hide." Brienne had told him that a hundred times, if not more.

_The Whitewalkers_ , he thought desperately. _The Whitewalkers are the weakness!_ But with the endless swarm of wights, Pod could not see a single one.

_"Not something you already know about_ , _"_ Ser's voice cuffed him, _"something useful! Keep your damned eyes loose, and look!"_

Searching wildly in the glimpses Pod could spare between foes, Pod saw only endless corpses rushing for him. _"_ _Look harder,"_ Ser Brienne urged him.

Up, over the rotting skulls of the dead, he _could_ see the Whitewalkers, even with just his periphery; the great beasts they rode were larger, more obvious in the fray than anything else, once he had torn his eyes away from the endless swarm to look.

The army of the living was scattering before them, turning and fleeing in fear. Most who ran died for it. " _You only retreat if you're losing,"_ Brienne warned him. "If you have nowhere left to run, you _fight_ , or you're finished."

Pod turned to Jaime, and shouted only for his ear.

"The beasts!" Pod shouted, and Jaime nodded, casting his eye toward the one closest to them. The ice bear and its rider faced away from them, cutting a path through the army. The bear's once-pale fur gleamed, wet and red.

Pod and Jaime charged through the channel the beast had cut, hacking down rogue wights spilling in from the sides all the while.

It was not until Pod was at the beast's back that he realized he had no way up. Five paces ahead, the ice bear stood above his head at its shoulder.

Jaime sprinted ahead of him and dropped to one knee, his left arm and shield tucked over his shoulder. Without thinking, Pod leapt. When his foot his Jaime's shield, the man vaulted him high into the air with a loud grunt.

The Whitewalker glanced over its shoulder too late, and Pod's sword plunged through its back. The cold blue smile died first, and the creature's long, white beard was an inch from Pod's furious gaze when he twisted the blade. The creature shattered; icy dust stung his eyes, and he lurched as the bear crumpled beneath him. Crouching, Pod clung on, rising sword first when the ice bear was still.

Near a thousand wights, and at least ten beasts were destroyed with their fallen Master, and in the pause, Pod shouted with all his might, blade held high.

" _Kill the Whitewalkers!_ "

The roar of men still living rang clear in the Night. Podrick countered and killed more wights, and with the corner of his gaze, watched the living turn on their retreat.

Soldiers turned to face the beasts, screaming furiously into the death they brought. Many fell, but one brave, able man or woman in twenty managed to take one down, usually the same way that he had, mounting the beast from behind.

Sliding down the bear's ribcage, Pod found Jaime with his back to the beast, and together they cut their way back to Ser Brienne. Minutes had passed, and she had not moved, but the flush was still in her cheeks.

A cold, sharp pain in his chest.

With a gasp, Pod caught himself on one knee. Time seemed to slow as he turned his eyes down, confronting the spear lodged in the center of his chest. Ten paces back, a Whitewalker grinned at him, still lowering his throwing arm.

The dizzyness was worsening, but his blood had congealed around the icy weapon; with a deep breath, he summoned the last of the strength that remained to him.

_"When you die..."_ Ser Brienne had often told him, _"die well."_ On one knee, Pod freed his dragonglass dagger from his belt.

Holding the dagger lightly by its blade, Pod cocked his arm and threw.

The daily training with Arya Stark, which Ser Brienne had insisted on, guided the dagger cleanly into one eye of the Whitewalker. As Pod fell back, he grinned through the blood spilling from his mouth.

"NO!" Pod heard Jaime shout, dim and distant.

A chill spread through him, took him over. The pain in his chest faded to a soft ringing in his ears. Jaime's face blurred, and the clamor of battle dimmed to a peaceful quiet.

With his last ounce of strength, Podrick turned his head weakly to one side; Ser Brienne's face was tilted towards him, the rosy hue of life had not yet left her cheeks.

The cold in his heart turned to a burst of heat as all faded to black. A darkness, pinpricked by a soft, white light, shone brighter with every dying beat of his heart.

_Well done, Podrick_ , Brienne commended him.

"Thank you, Ser," Pod whispered proudly as his eyes closed. 


	29. The Long Night (V)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Beric Dondarrion and the Hound grow impatient, as Lady Melisandre insists they must wait for the right moment to join the fight against the dead._

"My Lady," Beric Dondarrion insisted again, but the Red Priestess cut him off with an exacting patience that had not waned, not after ten hours, and not after twenty.

"Not yet," Melisandre asserted, and the Lightning Lord sighed. He returned to his circuitous route, back and forth between the two doors.

In her finest, barest scarlets, Melisandre sat as still as stone in a cushioned chair. Behind her, Beric paced restlessly, while the Hound leaned against the wall, scowling.

The fire in the hearth trembled and flickered, and the Red Priestess caught more than mere _glimpses_ in the timid flames.

One by one, the outer defenses were destroyed by the Enemy. Half the Unsullied, and hardly a third of the Dothraki survived the retreat within the walls of Winterfell; may more would yet fall before Dawn.

When Theon Greyjoy made his great sacrifice, he did so with a smug and distinctive smirk; he died knowing, beyond doubt, that he had slain the wight of the third dragon. When his flame darkened, the man died unaware of the joy it brought to her face. In slaying the dragon wight, Theon had made viable the Dawn, and wrested one of the Flames of _Lightbringer_ from the hands of the Enemy.

Even the most ordinary sword was made of three basic pieces; pommel, grip, and blade. Each served a certain purpose. _Lightbringer,_ the Flaming Sword of Azor Ahai－ Champion of the Lord of Light in this age and the last－ bore the same three pieces as any other sword. The death of Viserion had fragmented _Lightbringer_ , but even a broken blade could kill, if wielded with proper skill.

With two dragons, the Dawn was still within reach...

Some moons ago, Melisandre had left Westeros fairly certain that Jon Snow, the King in the North, was also the Prince who was promised, the One to wield the Flaming Sword... And yet, less certain than she was, when the Red Woman had thought the same of Stannis Baratheon.

After advising Queen Daenerys to summon Jon Snow, the Red Priestess returned to Volantis to find the truth. There, Melisandre conferred with the High Priestess Kinvara and the others, pored over the old writings. She compared accounts of Jon Snow to that of Daenerys Targaryen, and watched in wonder as a spontaneous flame－ a fire set by the Lord of Light himself－ turned a charcoal portrait of the Dragon Queen to ash in her hands. The image cast in the flame had shown the Red Priestess her final task, and a voice－ that was not one, but a thousand voices－ had whispered an answer.

_"There will come a day,_

_After a long summer,_

_When the red star bleeds,_

_And the cold breath of darkness hangs heavy on the world,_

_In this dread hour, a warrior shall draw from the fire_

_A burning sword, and that sword shall be_ Lightbringer _,_

_The Red Sword of heroes,_

_And he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai_

_Born again, amidst salt and smoke,_

_To wake dragons out of stone..."_

The Prince－ or _Princess_ － who was promised. Breaker of Chains; Warrior of Light; Wielder of _Lightbringer... Azor Ahai reborn_.

The Mother of Dragons had unknowingly fulfilled the Lord of Light's prophecy years ago. Stormborn, amidst salt, as the worst storm in living memory smashed against the sea-cliffs of Dragonstone, and Daenerys Targaryen was brought into the world. Born again, in smoke, faraway on the Dothraki Sea, when the Dragon's Daughter nestled three stone eggs around her husband's body, and walked into the flames of his pyre.

Jon Snow may not have been the Prince who was promised, but the man had a role yet to play. That Daenerys would defeat the Enemy was certain; the death tole of the living was not. Jon Snow's tireless preparations would be responsible for nearly every life spared this Night.

The fire in the hearth sputtered, and Melisandre watched placidly as one of the three Flames of _Lightbringer_ darkened. The dragon Rhaegal died, a half-mile South and West of the walls.

"Our hour draws near," Melisandre murmured to herself, but she only spoke the thought aloud for Beric's benefit. For near a day and a half they had waited by the hearth, motionless as she gazed into the fire. Lord Beric was still pacing behind her.

_"Not yet,"_ the many voices of the Red God whispered from the low burning fire.

The Red Priestess was not alone in hearing the call of the Lord; the Hound leaned forward suddenly, his gaze fixed suspiciously on the hearth, but he said nothing. Lord Beric, despite being a fair distance closer, did not seem to hear it at all.

Shouts and clamor of the battle rising in the courtyard drifted through the stone walls, louder and grimmer by the moment.

" _How much longer_ must we wait, my Lady?" Beric asked again, more insistently, dropping to a knee beside her.

Melisandre did not answer, for she could not say, and stared numbly into the flames.

The Knight－ whom the songs would immortalize as _Brienne the Bold_ － fell to a great foe. The flames shuddered, and the certainty of the fighting woman's fate was obscured from the Priestess' gaze. Podrick Payne's fate was certain; he died well, knowing he might have turned the tide of the battle. In doing so, Ser Brienne's loyal squire had drawn the icy gaze of the Enemy to himself. With Podrick's sacrifice, the glimpse of victory at Winterfell grew clearer, more certain.

That glimpse yet flickered, and the absoluteness of victory rested heavily on Melisandre's narrow shoulders. She was weary of waiting, weary of _four lifetimes_ spent in faithful service to the Light. Beyond the clouds, past storm and sky, the sun had come and gone and come again.

At last, the Long Night entered its darkest hour.

"Oh, fuck this waiting!" The Hound lurched forward impatiently, reaching for the door to the Southern battlements, where the sounds of fighting had thickened.

For the first time in hours, Melisandre's gaze was torn from the flame.

Nestled in her golden collar, the great ruby pulsed and gleamed. It shone as a red star by the time Sandor whipped around, cursing and clutching his hand. The latch had burned his hand, as if white-hot, but his glove would be unmarred. An illusion, a pain that was both real and not real.

"Only your death waits beyond that door," the Red Woman murmured, turning her eyes back to the flames. As if in reply, screams－ sharp and near－ pealed through the door to the battlements.

The soldiers fighting and dying outside could not see, as the Red Priestess did, the _end_ to the Army of the Undead; the far shore beyond the endless, churning ocean of death. Such was the illusion of the Great Enemy; the _fear_ that was the mightiest weapon of the Darkness.

"People are dying out there!" Beric shouted. "Hours, and _hours_ now we have waited in this tower, doing _nothing_ to save them! _How_ can that be the Lord's will?" The Lightning Lord still knelt beside her, demanding an answer.

"Have faith, Lord Beric," Melisandre said tiredly. The flames sparked, and her scarlet lips twinged. "Yet it seems even faithless prayers may still be answered," she said, rising and smoothing her red velvet skirt. "The time has come."

Without waiting, the Red Woman folded her hands and made for the door. Not that which The Hound had reached for, but a smaller door that led to a short, knobby corridor.

After a pause, the men followed after her.

"There," Melisandre gestured to one of the woolen rugs at the end of the hall. Hastily, Beric pulled it aside, revealing a trap-door. The Hound yanked it open roughly, and a spiraling stone staircase plunged straight down into darkness.

"Ha!" The Lightning Lord crowed, his sole eye winking with delight as he nodded to her. "Apologies for doubting, Lady Red," Beric intoned genuinely, with a sweeping bow.

Melisandre smiled, nodded graciously, and took the first step down. The stair plunged straight down the spine of the Southwest Tower; the bottom-most step lay five paces below the frozen earth.

The door at the base of the stair was solid iron, the handle frosted shut. Setting her hand on the latch, the great ruby at her throat pulsed and shined, and the ice gave way beneath her creamy white palm.

Melisandre pulled the door open glibly, and gestured for Beric to go first down the icy tunnel; she followed silently, and the Hound after her. The door was left propped open behind them.

The ruby at her throat still shone, brighter than ever, illuminating the next few steps of the frozen path, scattering pink light over the twinkling frost.

"It's fucking freezing," the Hound growled from behind. No one answered him. "Why is it never just a normal fucking fight with you, Dondarrion? Why's it always got to be _ice_ and _fire_ , and magic and monsters, and holy fucking quests for the bloody Fire God?"

"I ask myself that same question Clegane," Beric replied sagely, not turning his eye away from the darkness that lay ahead of the soft pink light. Melisandre grinned but said nothing; she had asked the same thing herself... Many times, as a young Priestess, newly enslaved to and wary of the will of the Lord of Light. As the years turned to centuries, questions of _why_ lacked answers, more often than not, compared to questions of _how_ and _who_ , _when_ and _where_?

The flat, frozen tunnel turned to a slight incline. Shortly after, a door peeked through a thick sheet of ice at the end. Lord Beric stepped aside and gestured the Red Priestess forward.

Melisandre lifted her hand and made short work of clearing away the ice, though it was far thicker on this door than the last. With every step the Red Woman had taken towards her destiny, the great gem fixed over her throat felt a bit warmer, and shone a bit brighter.

Her soft hand rested on the wet, dripping latch. Hesitating, Melisandre turned her gaze to Beric. "You remember what the Lord of Light requires?"

"Every word, my Lady. I will do what must be done," Beric vowed, pulling his sword free and running a mailed hand over the blade. With a _scrape_ , the flames sparked to life, curling eagerly around the glowing metal. The ancient blade was but one of many false _Lightbringers;_ ordinary swords of forged metal, tempered in dragon's blood, or otherwise impregnated with flame. Not the Flaming Sword of legend, but nonetheless, a worthy weapon against the wights.

The Great Enemy possessed eyes beyond counting, borne by each and every one of his slaves. Always, He hungered for more; the stronger the light of a living soul burned, the more desperately the Great Enemy sought to snuff it out, and claim its power for His own.

Steeling her courage, Melisandre waited with her hand on the latch. All was quiet but for the distant, echoing drips of the icy tunnel at their backs.

Finally, they came. Sensing her warmth, dozens of undead pounded on the door, sharp and sudden. Stolen hands, long given way to bone, scraped and clattered as the undead rent themselves against the iron.

"Fucking hells," the Hound gruffed, startling. He jerked free his crude dragonglass _arakh;_ the same rough, yet sturdy make as what the Dothraki carried.

Receiving a nod from Beric, the Red Priestess opened the door, pulling it in front of herself and stepping fluidly behind it. The undead rushed in, a dozen or more at once. Side by side, Beric and Sandor cut them down while she waited, tucked out of sight.

Minutes of grunting and fighting were followed by a telling quiet. Melisandre slipped out from her hiding spot, stepping lightly over the corpses.

Taking a single stride through the open door, she paused and scanned the Night. A thick darkness lay everywhere, broken only by a thick, shifting mist and the soft glow of the gem at her throat. Swallowing, Melisandre felt more afraid than she ever had, in more than three hundred years.

_"Have courage, servant of Light,"_ the many voices of her Lord whispered kindly, through the gem and to her mind the call came, as clear and warm as the first wind of Spring.

"More will come," Melisandre called gravely over one shoulder. With her chin high, she stepped into the silent darkness. Beric quickened his pace, and kept just ahead of her. The Hound followed behind. While the warriors gazed about, searching for the Enemy in the drifting, tenebrous mist, Melisandre kept her eyes fixed South and West, to the end of her path.

A pair of blue eyes set in a half-rotten skull emerged from the mist, beheld the light shining at her throat. The wight let loose a piercing, broken scream. Dozens more appeared after the first, all sprinting intently from the darkness.

Beric and the Hound and left a trail of flaming corpses that led all the way back to the hidden door. For near a half mile, the Red Woman kept a rapid, steady pace.

An awful terror gripped her heart as the Whitewalker's eyes shone, bright and cruel and sudden in the fog. Melisandre gasped, taking three lurching steps back.

"Clegane!" Beric shouted, nimbly dodging the biting jaws of a half-skinned Direwolf. The Lightning Lord danced around the beast, piercing it here and there with his flaming blade.

"There you are, you _fucker_ ," the Hound rasped, lurching towards the Whitewalker. The creature lifted an icy blade, but the Hound hacked its arm off at the elbow, then brought his obsidian _arakh_ roughly across its face. A burst of frost announced its doom.

"Not smiling now, are you?" The Hound spat on the icy dust.

The steady barrage of wights relented, for the moment, and Melisandre stopped. Behind them, a few bodies－ set to a blaze that would not last much longer－ were still visible in the dark fog. The Red Priestess turned to Beric.

"Our time has come, my Lord," she said gently. "The Lord of Light calls us to our final task." The Red God was not without mercy; there was time enough for Beric to bid a short farewell to the man he called his friend. Their friendship was, after all, the Lord's will; Melisandre knew that Sandor Clegane had heard the Lord of Light's call in the tower, and that the scarred, burned man would hear the call again, before the end.

"My purpose calls, Clegane," Beric said with a resigned grin. "Your journey goes on," Beric gestured to the flaming trail, leading back to the hidden door.

"Oh, fuck off will you? I'm staying to fight," the Hound gruffed.

"You would stay to die," Melisandre warned gravely. The Hound furrowed his brow at her until Beric clapped him on the shoulder.

"I've lived too long already Clegane," Beric insisted in an easy manner, returning to her side. "It's high time that someone outlives us, for a change."

The Red Priestess found herself smiling, and nodding solemn agreement.

The Hound stared at them for a moment, then sniffed. "You're a good sort," Sandor gruffed. "I hope it's worth all the shit, in the end."

Beric grinned and reached a hand forward. "Farewell, my friend."

Sandor shook Beric's hand, then hesitated. With a shrug, the Hound turned and jogged off, and was lost to sight in seconds.

Without a word, Melisandre turned and walked on, South and West.

Within moments, the frost-laden jaws of the dragon Rhaegal came into view. The dragon's eyes were shut, his great head tilted to one side, at rest. A layer of frost, set to sparkling brilliance by the light at her throat, glittered upon on Rhaegal's thorny crown.

Melisandre lay her bared hand on the dragon's forehead and shut her eyes.

Buried in shadow, deep within the dragon's heart was a faint, flickering light. No larger than a grain of sand, yet the light pulsed and gleamed at her touch.

From that stubborn spark ran a thin, invulnerable thread of purest gold. The thread－ not unlike the pain of touching a burning door handle, yet pulling a hand away unscathed－ was both real, and not real; it tethered Rhaegal's light to the fire that still raged within the Mother of Dragons. For the first time with _certainty_ , Melisandre knew that so long as the Champion of Light yet lived, the Flames of Lightbringer lived within grasp.

The scarlet of her lips turned up in a soft, hopeful smile. _Flame of R'hollor, hear my call and return_ , the Red Priestess called into the darkness.

The tender light within the dragon flickered, responding to her call as quickly as the darkness itself. Her eyes opened, but Melisandre did not pull her hand away from the dragon's flesh.

"Remember your task, Lord Beric," the Red Priestess warned. "Do not hesitate."

***

"Never, my Lady!" Beric crowed, and lashed his flaming sword at another rogue wight, racing forward from the gloom. A steady stream of dead men followed, more by the moment.

Laughing madly, the Lightning Lord struck each one but once with his blade, danced past it while the flame did the rest. When the last of a score or more fell, there came a pause. More would come, but for a moment Beric could gaze in wonder, while the twinkling frost on the dragon's horns whisked away on steaming tendrils. Verdant green seemed to streak along the beast's frill.

From the gloom behind the dragon, a flutter of dark wings. An enormous raven, ebony feathers ruffled and torn in places, landed upon the dragon's horns. The bird was far larger than any raven Beric had ever seen, with a peculiar white eye-spot on its forehead.

The Raven looked intelligently upon him, and cawed once, roughly. " _Task._ "

"Ha-hah!" Beric exulted, a delighted smile crossing his face. "Oh, what a glorious way to be called home!" He laughed madly. Behind him, the Red Priestess spoke quietly, urgently, in High Valyrian.

"Flame of R'hollor, hear my call and return..."

More corpses rushed forward from the gloom. Faster, it seemed, and more frenzied than ever. Beric was grunting now, not laughing, barely fighting off the thickening Dead. More than once, boned fingers brushed the Red Priestess' gown before Beric took it down.

The Red Priestess turned her face to the sky; the great ruby at her throat was shining brighter than he had ever seen it, sending a red beacon up into the Night.

Melisandre cried out, "Flame of R'hollor, hear my call and return!" Luminant red flashed to blinding white, and the gem nestled within her golden collar cracked, then shattered. The wights, which should have taken Beric and her both at that moment were, simply, gone.

Beric did not hesitate to his task, and plunged his flaming sword through the Red Priestess' heart. He wrapped his other arm around the small of her back, like a lover's embrace but for the blade piercing her chest.

The sword hissed, and the flames receded from the metal in favor of her flesh; they licked gingerly at the edges of the wound, rolled steadily over her breast.

With a sigh, Lady Melisandre collapsed. Beric caught her weight, lowered her gently down. There was pride beyond measure in the Red Priestess' eye, and perhaps a touch of nervousness for what came next.

"Go in peace," Beric whispered, brushing his hand gently over her hair, " _Melisandre_... servant of Light." A shiver ran through him, as the frigid air warmed rapidly.

Melisandre's eyes closed with a soft smile, and the flames adorning her chest spread. Scarlet braid paled to white, and laughing lines of great age wrinkled the corners of her eyes; quickly, her body crumbled to ash in his arms. The sword fell to the ground, singed and ordinary. Melisandre's image－ cast in flame, younger and more beautiful－ lingered after. But before long, that too began to fade.

The great black Raven perched upon the dragon flew off, cawing raucously.

When the last of the Lady's flame abated, the scarlet eye of the dragon Rhaegal snapped open with a sharp _hissss_. The beast rose on unsteady legs and shook himself, screaming. With a rush of wet wind, Rhaegal took to the sky.

Wights beyond counting poured from the darkness. _Too late,_ Beric thought triumphantly. Without his flaming sword, Beric recalled the dragonglass dagger at his hip. Just as Lady Red had told him, he had found no use for it, and he laughed.

Six times now Beric Dondarrion had died already; this would be his last. If the Lightning Lord pulled his dagger, he might yet take five or six down before the end, but he left the weapon on his hip, and forgave himself his eagerness.

Despite all the darkness Beric had seen in his six journeys into the beyond, he still believed that this time, his _last_ time, there would be light. That somewhere, beyond the endless void of the in-between, there was _peace_ waiting for good men in death.

_How could I not, after what all that I've seen?_ Beric wondered merrily with his fists planted on his hips. Turning his triumphant eye to the Northern sky, The Lightning Lord watched two dragons land upon the walls of the Godswood.

"Ha-haa!" Beric crowed. His joyous laugh turned to a short scream as the Army took him down. A dark and peaceful warmth followed the pain, and more quickly than it ever had before.

There, at last, waiting at the far end of darkness... a pinprick of light. 


	30. The Long Night (VI)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Along with Gendry, Arya holds the Godswood with the wolves, waiting for the fight to come to them._

The wolf-girl paced the Southern battlement, back and forth, East to West, always keeping above the Godswood. Arya tuned out the battle raging below and outside the walls as best as she could: the advancing Army, the forces of the living whittling away in the long hours of the Night. _Only death pays for life,_ the Faceless Man used to tell her. The first time she heard it, a girl had known it for truth.

The occasional barrage of dead ravens interrupted her watchful pacing. When they came, Arya danced around Gendry with her dagger, slashing the birds from the air without much thought; the dagger was part of her, and her muscles knew what to do. The raven wights blended into the Night, but for the blue of their eyes and the rushing flutter of their wings. As often as not, her ear and her dagger found a raven before her eye did.

In the pauses between flights of dead birds, Arya paced, and kept her sights on her brother and his dragon.

 _Rhaegal,_ a childish part of her awed, with nothing else to do but wait... _And my brother, Jon_ Targaryen _, is his rider._ Long had young Arya Stark admired the great Targaryen dragon riders of old. It was beyond strange to know that _Jon_ _－_ her gentle, fierce, brooding, impulsive, and occasionally oafish _older brother_ － would be forever remembered as one of them.

When Jon and Rhaegal vanished to the void that lay to the South, besieged by the Night King and Viserion, a knot took Arya's stomach. Halting where she was, she stared. Listening intently, her sharp ear picked up faint notes of a grim song, higher than the clouds in the sky, an airborne battle between two dragons. Before long, Arya heard the crash. The volume of it, from so far off, left no doubt which dragon had fallen.

 _I'd never make it there in time,_ Arya reasoned, but her muscles tensed anyways, bidding her to sprint, to run as fast as her legs could carry her to where Jon and Rhaegal had fallen.

A deafening screech came suddenly from above, wrought with pain, and Arya clapped her hands over her ears. Icy wind lashed her. When she opened her eyes, Arya watched the silhouette of Drogon, _the Winged Shadow_ , fade into the same abyss that her brother had.

 _Save him,_ Arya thought fiercely. With fists clenched, she waited for the return of both dragons and riders. With the clamor of battle, she could hear nothing telling from the South. The Army of the Dead piled like Braavosi army ants below the walls; the clamor of battle was too loud, too near. _Save him!_

"Your brother's a fighter," Gendry assured after a few moments, "he'll make it."

There was little more doubt in Gendry's voice than there was in her heart. Still, Arya prayed it was a wolfish _knowing_ , not a wish burning strongly enough to feel as truth. She held on to the feeling, even when the rotten shell of a dragon plummeted from the Southern sky; the smallest of the three. Riddled with holes, blue flames belched from wounds in its neck.

"Get down!" Arya shouted, and grunted when Gendry threw himself on top of her; the blue inferno burst just above them and raked along, consuming half the archers on the South wall.

When the wight passed, Arya leveraged her legs and twisted out from beneath Gendry, grabbing him roughly by the front of his jerkin as she did.

"Follow me!" Arya lunged back and released his jerkin. Gendry stumbled a bit as he followed after her.

Her legs moved with a swift instinct through the fray of burning men, to the nearest stair; the cobblestone spiraled down, dropped them into the strange quiet of the Godswood. At the bottom of the stair, Nymeria was waiting for her.

The silver Direwolf stood tensely, regarding her a moment, then turned and vanished into the wood. Arya blinked.

 _He comes_...

Nymeria growled, low and threatening, and Arya felt the hatred rumbling in her chest. From the darkened wood, hundreds more wolves echoed the first. _The Cold One..._ A thousand thoughts flashed at once, each a different sighting of the same tight blue face, with a crown of dark thorns adorning his head, and blazing blue eyes set above a cruel smile.

With a blink, Arya returned to her own skin, and found Gendry at her back.

He was staring at her, a familiar look on his face; the same one that Arya had once given her father, just before Ilyn Payne removed his head from his shoulders. The same look that mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters would give their loved ones－ sick or mangled beyond hope－ in the House of Black and White. 

It was a look that did its best to memorize every detail of someone before they died, or you did.

"Do you know what we say to the God of Death?" Arya asked him softly. Gendry seemed almost surprised that she had spoken, but shook his head slightly. Across her face, a dry grin spread, and Arya shook her head once. "Not today."

After a heartbeat's hesitation, Gendry mirrored her smirk. He pulled _Last Storm_ from behind his back, and squeezed the hammershaft comfortingly.

"Not today," Gendry agreed.

Without warning, Arya felt a thrumming in her chest, and Nymeria howled. The host of wolves joined in. Dimly, Arya heard Gendry grunt and cover his ears. Usually, a sound so loud would rend itself even more painfully against her sharp hearing, but Arya felt only strength in the deafening wolfsong.

A crash that shook the earth sounded from somewhere down the South wall. In the same moment, branches in the Godswood cracked and rustled, followed quickly by the pounding of something striking the ground in the North wood.

Arya blinked, and Nymeria watched from the shadows as the Night King rose from a crater in the icy earth. The Cold One turned a joyless glance to the center of the Godwood.

 _To the Weirwood tree,_ Arya realized. She heard the thought echo through the host of four-hundred-twenty wolves hiding within the walls of the Godswood. As one, the pack moved with a silent precision into the best defense they could between the Night King and the Weirwood Tree. While the Army of the Dead swarmed the courtyard of Winterfell, the quiet only deepened in the wood.

Arya cast a look at Gendry and raised a finger to her lips. He nodded, motionless, and Arya felt herself pulled into Nymeria for a flash, just long enough to see the Night King turn a cruel smile towards the great gray Direwolf, hiding nearer than all the others in the undergrowth.

Nymeria snarled fearlessly and stepped forward, and the pack was with her. A dozen wolves stepped forward from the brush, gleaming white fangs bared in hatred, while the spit dripped eagerly from their jaws.

 _Death..._ The thought came to her mind not from Nymeria, but another, a brown wolf, and it did not taste of fear or hatred; rather, Arya felt a determined pride in the grim thought.

Large for a common wolf, the male stalked forward behind the Night King. With a curel smile, the Cold One pulled an icy dagger from each hip and waited.

 _Death!_ The brown lunged, his jaws gaping, and was struck down before his fangs could meet flesh. But the brown wolf was not alone; a black she-wolf lunged forward with him, took the foul creature by the opposite leg. The black tore free a small piece of hard-frozen flesh before the Cold One's blade took her.

 _Pack..._ Nymeria thought with a profound respect, and heart-wrenching sadness.

As the common wolves paid for precious time, Nymeria turned and led a score of Direwolves to the heart of the Godswood. Together, the largest wolves formed a defensive circle around the Weirwood tree, and consequently, the Three-Eyed Raven.

 _Death!_ The wolves who lunged forward were frothing with rage. Snapping jaws rent small pieces off the Night King, who grinned at each wolf slaughtered with ease.

Unable to bear the pain of it, Arya returned to her own skin with a gasp, and pulled Gendry from the South wall to the Weirwood Tree. Nymeria stood beside Ghost, who stood just beside the Three-Eyed Raven. It sat in its wheeling chair, motionless, with its eyes a soft grey. Screams of dying wolves pealed urgently from the North, closer every moment.

"Stay here," Arya commanded Gendry, who looked about to argue before he glanced at the Three-Eyed Raven, and nodded determinedly.

"Be careful," Gendry warned her softly, and Arya only grinned in reply and planted a quick kiss on his cheek before dashing to Nymeria's side.

The silver Direwolf bowed low, and Arya's diminutive frame fit easily on her back. Arya pressed herself close, wrapped her arms over Nymeria's shoulders and draped her legs over the wolf's flanks. Her eyes closed, and she heard Gendry laugh quietly to himself.

Nymeria crept silently into the brush. Even pressed as Arya's body was against Nymeria, the occasional twig brushed against her as they stalked forward. Each time one did, Arya tried to hug herself tighter.

 _"You can only watch him while he's distracted,"_ came Bran's empty voice, strangely clear to her mind, while Nymeria crept on. Finally they reached the source of the strangled screams of dying wolves.

The pack still launched themselves at the Cold One; a ruin of dead and dying wolves lay over a trail of blood, flowing North. A malevolent growl thrummed in her chest, and Arya shared Nymeria's urge to leap.

 _Easy, girl,_ Arya thought, and brushed her hand lightly on the wolf's shoulder. Nymeria fell quiet and crouched a bit lower. Arya opened her eyes and slid off, her feet brushing silently against the bare snow. She freed the spear from her belt.

The wolves knew that she was there, and changed tactics to keep the Night King turned away from her, dying all the while. _Wolf-girl,_ they commended her, and leapt to their deaths in her defense.

With ten fluid steps, Arya thrust her spear straight through the Night King's chest. Dead man or not, it was a man once, and a girl knew a man's body well enough to know the spearhead was buried in his heart. A rattling gasp came from the creature, and it fell to one knee, one mangled hand pressed over its chest.

 _Wrong,_ Nymeria snarled. The Night King turned his head to one side, locking his cruel blue eye with hers. Smiling, he stood with ease and turned to face her fully. Arya's muscles were locked in terror of the blue gaze. The wolves had stopped lunging. The Night King sheathed one of his icy daggers.

 _Run,_ came the insistent thought, a hundred times or more, but her muscles would not oblige; they forced her to watch, motionless, as the Cold One slowly reached behind his back, wrapped a mangled hand over the spearshaft, pushed the spearhead through his chest. He pulled the rest out, through the front. One dragonglass head shattered, and he dropped the spear to the ground.

The Night King raising both arms up slowly past his hips, palms turned to the sky.

 _No!_ The wolves snarled as one. A dozen or more common wolves lunged together, took the Night King's legs. A wild tangle of snapping jaws and bloody fur dragged the Cold One off, into the brush. Sharp yips and screams, endless snarling of dying wolves followed. Snatching up her spear, Arya threw herself on top of Nymeria. While the wolf bounded South, Arya breathed the terror let over into a few trembling breaths.

The she-wolf sprinted to the Weirwood Tree, and at that pace reached it in seconds. Thickly grown was the Godswood, but not very large, and it had never felt smaller than it did now. Arya jumped lithely from the wolf's back, and Nymeria let loose a piercing, desperate howl. The Direwolves, and the remaining common wolves, echoed her plea.

_Help us..._

Thuds, each following faster than the last, came from the South woods.

 _The Stolen come_ , the wolves warned. The wights had piled like ants, overtaken the Southeast wall of the Godswood, and dropped steadily to the ground there. Arya loosed her spear.

"Valyrian Steel won't kill the Night King," she told Gendry, eyes fixed to the South. If dragonglass had not destroyed the Night King, neither would the steel alloy from which it was made. Gendry glanced at the spikes adorning either end of his hammer, nodded. 

"Not today," Gendry reminded her sternly.

A shock of golden fire ran along the inside of the South wall. The flames burned eagerly in the wood, and illuminated the great wound in the dragon's chest, as Rhaegal landed on the Eastern wall. To the West, Drogon crashed down barely a moment after, with a belch of red-gold flame.

Drogon's immense, serpentine neck was bent low. Between his wings, Jon and the Dragon Queen were already making their way down the rungs of the dragon's harness. Jon reached the wall first, then caught Daenerys when she jumped the last few feet.

"Jon!" Arya shouted.

The keening of a hundred wolves rang out with the dragons' arrival. Then came the first moment in history, where the wolves ever felt joy to see the woods burn.


	31. The Long Night (VII)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The final chapter of the Long Night._

With both of his hands aching, Jon clung desperately to the dragon's spikes, and did his best to keep his eyes forward, while Drogon bucked and twisted in the air. It had been only minutes since Daenerys rescued him from the grounds South of Winterfell, yet already, the strength was failing in his arms. The only direction that was certain to was down, and it wrenched at him constantly, tossing him this way and that.

There was no sense in counting how many glittering spears shot past, pale blue and longer than he was. Each one meant certain death for Drogon, and most missed their mark by mere inches.

Wresting himself forward, Jon lurched one clutching hand to another spike, farther forward along Drogon's back, closer and closer to Daenerys. The unpredictable rolling and banking of the dragon turned every reach into a risk.

With a sharp shriek, Drogon twisted in the air and tucked his wings. Jon shouted, secured both his hands and clung tighter; his feet slid free from where he had wedged them between the spikes, and dangled in the open air. His hands screamed in pain, fighting every ounce of his body, ripping down at him. An icy spear whistled past his ear, sparing his life by an inch or two.

As suddenly as he had rolled, Drogon righted again. Jon grunted, smacked hard against the dragon's back. With a low moan, Jon reached forward again, and hauled himself a half-step closer, wincing for the agony in his hands.

In the glimpses of the battle below, there was little hope left in his heart for the soldiers of Winterfell. Except for knowing that, when the last of the living had been claimed, there would be silence, not chaos in the courtyard. Within every wall, save the ones wrapped about the Godswood, was a roiling basin of screaming shadows and glittering blue eyes.

Jon wrested himself forward again with a stubborn grunt, just three paces behind Daenerys now.

A familial thrumming in his chest announced the rolling howl; hundreds on hundreds of wolves singing as one within the Godswood. The sound was faint, even to his ear, and fleeting as Drogon banked and carved ruinous paths of impermanent flame along the ground South of Winterfell, just outside the breach.

 _The howl,_ Jon thought desperately. _Arya told us to wait for the howl..._

"Daenerys!" Jon shouted, but the call turned to a pained shout as the dragon rolled. Just one hand, and a stubborn rage, was all that kept Jon from joining the dead, writing below. The howl cut short, and the dragon righted himself. Daenerys looked steadfastly forward.

 _She couldn't hear it..._ Jon thought with a pit in his stomach. The distance to her along Drogon's back seemed to double before his eyes, and he reached forward. The wind screamed over him, laced tiny hooks into the smooth, streamlined wool of his coat, wrenched at him from behind.

"Daenerys!" Jon shouted her name again, and again, but the rushing wind－ heavy-laden with screaming and the roar of the dragonfire－ devoured his voice.

Distantly, he could still hear the wolves. Snarling in rage and yelping in death; a rational part of him understood he could never hear it from dragon back.

" _Ghost_!" Jon called out.

With a blink, he was on the ground, glancing with pale red eyes between the Three-Eyed Raven in the chair, and the South woods beyond; the wretched scent of wolf-blood was thick there. Ghost was silent, hackles raised and fangs bared; the Direwolf was resolved to keep the Three-Eyed Raven alive, if it meant his end. One by one, wolf-kin cried out " _Death_ ," and lunged at the Night King.

 _Come_ , the thought came from Ghost, wrought with urgency, a command meant for his mind alone. _Come!_

With a blink, Jon found himself again on dragonback. He was pressed tight against the beast, hands wrapped around two spikes, feet wedged beneath two others, just as he had been.

Jon turned dark, fearsome eyes up, locked them on the Queen's silver hair, glinting like a beacon of white in the darkness. _I'm coming, Ghost!_ Jon thought, setting his jaw. Drogon banked again, and Jon lurched hard to one side and clung on, waiting for the beast to right itself.

Far off in the unnatural murk, Jon glimpsed a strange red glow, like a pillar of crimson light, reaching from earth to sky. The light vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The dragon leveled, Jon hauled himself as far forward as he could manage.

The Queen's name was in his mouth, but out came instead a prolonged gasp; there was a searing heat flaring in his chest, hot and tight in his heart－ terribly uncomfortable, painful even, and yet rejuvenating－ like immersing frostbitten flesh in warm water.

 _Rhaegal..._ A distant scream, South and West, answered his hope.

 _He's alive!_ Jon knew it, even if he did not know how. The Mother of Dragons had felt it too, Jon watched her eyes dart skyward and South. Drogon arced his neck and let loose a deafening roar; the strength of it shot a flash of heat through Jon's aching arms, renewing their strength. Screaming right along, Jon hauled himself forward once, twice, and again.

"Rhaegal!" Daenerys called out. Her voice was dim, but Jon heard it. _If I can hear her..._

"Daenerys!" Jon shouted with all his might, and finally, she heard him. "The Godswood!" With a glance that lasted less that a heartbeat, the Dragon Queen turned forward again, with fire and blood in her eyes. Drogon roared, pumping his wings hard. The Godswood was spinning beneath them in seconds.

The wolves howled again, hundreds fewer than before.

 _Help us,_ they cried, desperate and dying in the Godswood. _Help us!_ "Dracarys!" Jon shouted instinctively, not realizing he had done so until the word was free of his mouth.

Rhaegal's emerald-frilled face careened from the dark, scarlet flames already spilling from his mouth; he reigned red-gold fire into the Godswood, igniting the Southern edge of the forest before crashing down upon the East wall with an enduring, thunderous roar. Drogon mirrored the smaller dragon, wreathing the North woods in flame and crashing down on the West wall.

As soon as Drogon had landed, Jon freed his hands at last from their desperate clutch. He lurched forward, wrapped the nearest length of chain around his forearm, and jumped. The harness' chain slid eagerly over the stiff wool of his coat, while the leathers and bracer beneath took the pressure off his arm. The stone of the battlements thudded against his feet, and Jon looked up.

Daenerys was halfway down, but still well above his head. She glanced over her shoulder and caught his eye.

"Jump!" Jon opened his arms, and without hesitation, Daenerys leapt into them. Settling her, Jon ripped the Night's Watch horn free from his belt and blew it once.

The cresting trumpet of the horn rang clear over the screaming of wolves, and the cacophony of the battle raging within the walls. He could only pray that there was anyone alive left to hear it.

Everywhere Jon looked, he saw dead men and fire. The wights had piled up below the South wall; they were pouring over each other, over the South wall. The Godswood burned, the spread of it slowed some by the wetness of the winter wood, but the dragonfire was still catching faster than seemed possible.

"Follow me!" Jon shouted, wrenching _Longclaw_ from its sheath.

Daenerys gave him a short nod and drew her obsidian daggers－ more delicate, and more stoutly made than the others－ free from her belt. She held them just the way Jon had showed her－ one at her heart, the other by her waist－ but he _knew_ what was waiting for them, in the Godswood...

"Go!" Daenerys urged, and Jon turned.

Sprinting for the nearest stair, he placed his feet carefully. Every step became another sword form, every forward motion a thrust or sweeping blow. By the third step, Jon had cut down as many wights, but for every one destroyed, there came two more, screaming from the darkness.

Daenerys kept behind him, and picked off a few stray wights here and there, but largely they all came from the same direction, and found _Longclaw_ first.

 _Too many,_ Jon thought. In near the same moment, a burst of red fire razed along the wall just ahead; in the flames, Jon saw men yet living burn along with the dead. It pained him to see it, but he could do nothing for it besides take full advantage of the respite.

With a glance, Jon assured that Daenerys was with him, and ran the last dozen paces to the spiraling stair. A shadowed cylinder of cobblestone and muffled sound sheltered them, for a moment, from the reality of the battle.

When the stair opened again, the Godswood before him was half-consumed by the dragonfire; the North and South ends of it were burning steadily to the center, towards the Weirwood. Thick, dark smoke hung heavy in the air, rashing his throat and stinging his eyes. Each cough came heavier than the last. Most of the smaller trees and shrubs had already crisped away; Jon could see the red, weeping eyes of the Weirwood, even from where he stood, beneath the West wall.

Arya was near the great tree, fighting as if she were dancing with dagger and spear, ten paces away from Bran. Nymeria was at her back, ripping corpses to smaller pieces and casting them a dozen paces away; wherever Gendry was, Jon could not see him from here. Ghost stood rigidly next to the Three-Eyed Raven, his fangs bared, his snowy white pelt unbloodied. A fall of dead men poured over the South wall, more than even the dragonfire could hope to consume.

Jon turned North and led Daenerys along the West wall, cutting down wights as he went.

Behind him, Daenerys yelled sharply, and Jon turned to see her recoil, duck, and lunge.

The Queen's dagger buried into a blue-eyed Unsullied. Daenerys dropped the dagger and staggered, her face drawn in pain, and pressed the empty hand to the chainmail at her waist. When she pulled it away, she looked at the clean hand with wide eyes, then furrowed her brow and wrenched her blade free from the Unsullied corpse.

Breathing hard, Daenerys brought her blades up－ one high and one low－ and gave him a quick, wide-eyed nod.

Jon turned and moved along, setting a swift and steady pace, and she followed. The wights would not give them more than a few moments pause at a time, and the going was slow, even with the stone wall protecting them to one side. Just ahead, door set in the West wall burst open; one of the larger doors, it opened directly to the madness in the courtyard, on the other side.

Jon jerked to a stop and raised his blade, ready for a flood of dead men.

He exhaled sharply when a man slipped through, then slammed the door shut behind him. The man drove the lock into place, whirled, and looked around wildly.

When Jorah's eyes found Daenerys, a disbelieving look flashed on his face. The Queen's most loyal guard was covered in blood, but he held his sword steady. A clattering chaos that could only be the Army smashed against the door, through which Ser Jorah had only just escaped. _Gods, let it hold long enough..._

"The Weirwood!" Jon shouted, and the old Knight nodded sharply. Ser Jorah fell into place, sharing a rapid, joyous look with Daenerys as he fell in behind her. "Stay together!" Jon led them due East, straight for the Weirwood tree.

The dead assaulted from everywhere that the dragonfire did not burn, and the flames were all that stemmed the flood of dead to a barely-manageable stream. _Longclaw_ cut through the ones ahead, _Heartsbane_ from behind, and the Queen's daggers waited, watched, and quickly found what corpses the other two blades had missed. Finally, they reached the base of the Weirwood.

The smoke was thickest at the center of the wood. It seared the tender flesh in his throat, blurred his eyes. Jon blinked hard and scanned the grounds, searching. _Where are you?_ Jon thought murderously, clutching _Longclaw_ close to his chest. Somewhere above, Rhaegal roared, echoing his bloodlust.

Arya was fighting from the same position, a few paces closer to Bran; she was defending, Jon realized, the fallen form of Gendry. The blacksmith lay, seemingly unconscious, in an elongate pool of his own blood. The great gray she-wolf was at Arya's back, jaws snapping at the dead, scattering them into pieces. For a Direwolf, and one larger than most horses, Nymeria moved with an adroitness to match his sister's, using her bulk as often as her jaws to rend the dead into fragments.

Nymeria was taking wounds in her effort to drag Gendry to the Weirwood. The blacksmith's eyes were closed, and his head lolled weakly whenever the Direwolf dragged him forward another pace. Arya danced around and under the wolf, carving ruin where she went.

Ghost watched on, eyes locked and muscles tensed to leap to his sister's aid, but the white Direwolf stayed put, beside the Raven. Jon realized that all along, he had been doing the same.

 _The Cold One..._ The thought was laced with the malice of a hundred maddened wolves.

Following Ghost's gaze, Jon turned South. There, through the smoking haze, his eye found the Enemy. The Night King was on the ground, some fifteen paces off, besieged by wolves and surrounded by a fire that would burn no nearer.

 _I'll never reach him,_ Jon thought, raising his sword to strike the first of a fresh wave of corpses, sprinting from dark gashes in the waning fire.

Abruptly came two pillars of red-gold flame, razing along the outside of the Godswood and spiraling towards the center. Just from where he stood, Jon saw a hundred wights burn before the dragons had circled once.

The wolves striking out at the Night King panicked, some were already aflame; frenzied hatred waged war against the wolfish instinct to flee from fire.

"Run!" Jon shouted to the wolves, waving his arm and his sword over his head. "Go, now! _Live_!"

The beasts pinning the Night King turned tail and ran at once, scattering into what little scraps of darkness remained to the Godswood; in a heartbeat, all but Nymeria and Ghost had vanished past shadow and flame.

With the wolves gone and the wights forestalled, all seemed hushed as the Night King rose smoothly. He stood behind a wall of crackling fire, and Jon felt a bitter joy to see how the wolves had mangled him.

The dark leather of the creature's garb was torn half to ruin. The icy pallor of his skin was pocketed with dark marks, where wolves had ripped free small pieces of hard-frozen flesh. A fist-sized hole was rent in the creature's chest, not a wound that even a Direwolf could make; Jon suspected Arya's work.

The wolf-girl and Nymeria had dragged Gendry to lay almost directly beside the boy in the wheeling chair. Bran had not moved since Jon had first laid eyes on him, but for the brown of his hair, ruffling in the scalding winds. Even the gray of his eyes did not falter, not even to blink.

Flames, three paces across, burned with a manic eagerness between Jon and the Night King. A sharp hissing sounded from all sides, and a pit formed in Jon's stomach to hear it. Dark rivulets overshadowed with trailing lines of steam curved steadily though the fire, and the flames succumbed to a growing spiral of darkness.

The Night King stood still, silent as the shadows spread. From the eldritch gloom beyond the failing light, two Whitewalkers stepped securely to their master's side. Ten more appeared in the same moment, encircling the Weirwood, and those defending it. Jon did not know how the Whitewalkers had breached the Godswood. It did not matter anymore.

The hissing faded, and darkness fell in earnest. To Jon's fury, the Night King did not even seem to notice him, nor Daenerys, Arya, or the Direwolves. Its foul blue gaze was locked on Bran; all their eyes were. _Whatever_ his brother was now, Jon would die before he let the Night King touch his brother again. _How many Starks,_ Jon had long wondered, _have you claimed in your damned army?_

The ancient seat of Jon's father's house went as far back in legend as the Night King, perhaps even farther. One Stark, at least, was certain to have marched among the dead. _Uncle Benjen..._ Jon tightened his hold on _Longclaw,_ his eyes narrowed.

The Night King took a slow step. Jon went to do the same, raising _Longclaw_ with murder in his eyes, but a warm pressure on his chest stopped him. Daenerys had put her hand there, and the look on her face held Jon fast.

***

When Daenerys first set her eyes on the Night King, it felt as if a part of her－ the part that felt joy, that dreamed of the Dawn, of homes with red doors, of love and laughter and other sweet things－ went suddenly to sleep. The same moment, at first sight of that awful gaze, another part of her woke, gasping.

A calm, patient fury pounded in her chest. When Jon moved forward, her hand was on him before his first step was through.

 _No,_ she thought firmly, and returned his look of frenzied confusion with one of utter clarity.

 _My love, do you not see? I am the blood of the dragon. Daughter and Mother of Dragons... The fire is_ mine _, do you not see that?_ A heartbeat's hesitation, and then, Jon proved that he did. He nodded tightly, stepped aside, and fell in at her back.

Daenerys turned her serene gaze to the Night King. The icy creature, mangled as he was, stepped forward slowly and soundly, as if unharmed. Its joyless gaze was still fixed on the boy in the wheeling chair.

"You will not," Daenerys insisted clearly, stepping forward.

The blue fire of the Enemy's gaze turned sharply to her. There was no mistaking the glint of recognition in the creature's eye. The stolen face was familiar to her, somehow. _Abomination..._ came the thought, though it did not feel entirely her own.

Daenerys walked with slow, deliberate steps, her hands folded primly over her waist. The clanging, thuds, and grunts of fighting at her back grew quieter with each step. The concern of it, and then the sounds themselves, faded to quiet behind her.

The Enemy stared. In the gaze, she felt its lust for blood, for her life spilt at its feet. The Dragon Queen met his stare, and swallowed her fear.

"Thief," she accused, her voice a low hiss.

The Enemy mirrored her silently, step-for-step, closer... Something tugged, behind her; she heard a man grunt and fall. The other cried out in vain denial. _Which one?_ She had to know... had to turn and see which of them was lost to her forever.

 _If you look back, you are lost,_ came a voice like her own whispering with a thousand others. The Night King's hateful eye disturbed her more deeply the longer she looked on, but she kept her chin high.

"No more," she declared, shaking her head once. With a final step, Daenerys stopped, hardly a pace away from the Night King. The creature only smiled, cruel and cold, and raised his icy blade, while the red, weeping eyes of the Weirwood peered over his shoulder.

"Dracarys," she murmured, and the firestorm erupted around her before the word was done. The inferno felt as a warm wind to her skin, while the foul tang of burnt leathers filled her nose. All that she wore, but for the chainmail gown, crisped away at once.

The Night King was smiling at her, unmarred, but the creature frowned at his hands, when his icy blades cracked and hissed away into tendrils of dark steam.

Daenerys unfolded her hands and brought them out to her sides, palms up.

There were sounds pounding against her ears, demanding her attention: crashing and banging and shouting. _Look back, and you are lost..._

The dragonfire wrapped itself around her arms, and ran down in fluttering spirals to her wrists. The fire snaked along, racing from her outstretched hands like two flaming whips.

 _Not whips,_ she mused distantly, _chains_.

Raising her arms higher, the chains wound away from her palms, lashed through the air, wrapped securely around the Night King. The creature went to his knees, and looked on in resigned contempt. After the Enemy was ensnared, the red-gold tendrils reached farther behind, twisted up around the great white Weirwood tree.

The blazing chains constricted, and the tree _cracked,_ shuddering with the force that the Night King was thrown against it.

Daenerys folded her hands again before her, and walked on, wreathed in many-colored flames; the fire danced over the bare skin of her arms and legs; the chainmail of her gown glowed, white-hot.

With a few more steps, she came before the Night King. Pinned against the tree, with blazing chains still snaking endlessly around, the creature could only watch on with cold, loveless eyes.

Gently, Daenerys reached one hand out, threading careful fingers into a gaping hole in his chest; inside of it, something as hard as rock, and cold as ice, smarted at her fingertips. The fire raced along her skin, licked at her fingers, and softened the icy flesh some.

Forcing fingers deeper, she gripped the stony mass in hand. With a sharp jerk, the obsidian blade came free from his heart, dripping with warm, red blood.

***

Jon gasped when the Whitewalker burst to a sudden shatter of frost, along with all the others. From one heartbeat to the next, the deafening roar of endless battle was replaced by a stunning silence.

Gaping, he turned to see the Night King wrapped by flaming cords to the Weirwood tree. By every pound of Jon's heart, the thing chained in flame to the Weirwood looked less a monster, and more a man.

Daenerys stood still, staring curiously at a slender piece of obsidian. Red blood pooled in her hand and dripped down her wrist, crackling and sizzling. The Queen was aglow with lambent, multi-colored flames; her chainmail gown gleamed white.

Slowly, Jon staggered forward, each step faster. Unsteady legs carried him quickly over to her side. He watched, dumbstruck, while the Night King's unnatural blue eye darkened to a panicked brown; his icy pallor paled to white; red blood leaked from the many gashes he bore, slowly at first, then faster.

 _"Once, he was an ordinary man,"_ the Raven had said, and in that moment, Jon knew the words for truth.

A cool drop of water tapped his cheek, the only warning to a sudden, gentle rain. The flaming chains, still holding the man to the tree, dissipated with a fluttering hiss. The flames doused, and the man pitched forward.

Jon caught his weight and lowered him to the ground. Looking closer on him, Jon knew him for one of the First Men. His ashy brown hair was cropped short, dark eyes set deep in his face, and accentuated by sharp cheekbones, and skin as pale as snow, where it was not covered in blood.

A pool of red spread quickly; the First Man shivered violently, choking and gasping, bleeding from hundreds of small gashes. Jon looked on sadly; the boy at his feet was only _just_ old enough to be called a man. His ravaged chest heaved, while brown eyes wheeled with panicked confusion.

Daenerys knelt. Flames of sunset red, golden sun, of spring green, ocean and twilight sky curled gently over her flesh. With a sympathetic look, she lay her hand tenderly across the man's forehead. The panic in his dark eyes calmed some, as the flames receded from her fingers. For a breath, the dying man focused on her face, and he exhaled his last. Jon wondered what his name had been, certain that wondering would last to the end of his life.

The rain fell heavier, hissing against the glowing chainmail covering her chest-to-hip, and Daenerys rose up from her crouch.

Jon stood and looked numbly around, confronting every corner of the impossible quiet with a suspicious eye.

The dragons, wherever they were, had flown off. The Godswood was burned black, where it was not soaked in the red blood of wolves. The wights had turned to corpses beyond count, still and quiet on the ground. A muted air smothered all of Winterfell, broken by the pounding of his heart and a persistent ringing in his ears.

Arya was bent over Gendry with a stern, determined look on her face, pressing her hands to his abdomen. Nymeria had curled herself around the two of them, and licked her wounds gingerly.

 _We've won..._ the thought did not yet taste real. Jon whirled again, certain he had looked too long, and that the dead would overcome him from behind.

To the West, he saw hundreds of bloodied soldiers gathered, still and silent, standing just this side of the large, open gate in the West wall.

Distantly, Jon recalled the horn he had blown, and remembered praying some force would rally to the call. To the West, the clouded sky above the soldiers had taken on a faint, pale glow. _The sun_ , Jon realized slowly. _The Dawn..._

The few-hundred soldiers were mostly Northmen, though some were the Queen's men. Jaime stood among them, at the front line, with the same look of awed exhaustion on his face as the rest.

Every soldier's eye looked to Daenerys, who returned their stares with a cool composure. The color-shifting flames dancing along her skin flickered, while the rain hissed against the once-bright chainmail of her gown, darkening the metal as the flames gave way.

One by one, they knelt. Wide, reverent eyes turned humbly to the ground.

Jon watched on with them as Daenerys turned her face up to the sky. She shut her eyes, and seemed to embrace the falling rain, then with a sigh, fell lightly to one side. Jon caught her gently and lay her down, holding her head in his hand; her eyes were half-lidded, gazing weakly at him.

"My Queen," Jon whispered, running a hand over the soot-laden silver of her hair. Tears and drops of rain ran freely down his face. "We've won..." Jon could not believe the words, not even as he said them. The green of her gaze fluttered. "Daenerys..."

From the corners of her closing eyes, twin drops of blood fell, and streaks of slender red ran down her face. _No..._

"Get the healers!" Jon shouted. His eyes locked on Jaime, the only face he recognized in the gaping crowd. Deep within the Castle, dozens of healers, of Westeros and Essos alike, had hidden away through the Long Night. "Tend the wounded!"

Jaime gaped a beat longer, then nodded sharply with his mouth still hanging. He repeated the command to the soldiers nearby, shaking and rousing those still stricken dumb.

Gently, Jon took Daenerys into his arms and stood. On reaching the nearest door, it opened before him, and he realized a Dothraki woman and an Unsullied soldier were keeping step with him, opening doors before he could reach them.

Daenerys' breath brushed weakly, inconsistently over the skin of his neck. His arm, wrapped underneath her legs, was wet with warm blood. "You will live," Jon whispered fiercely to his Queen, and quickened his pace as much as he could, without jostling her. Three times now, the woman in his arms had saved his life. _I will save you now..._ Jon promised it to her as much as to himself.

The inner stronghold of Winterfell Keep, where the healers had hidden away through the Night, was just around just one more corner, at the end of _one more_ long hall.

"Find Maester Wolkan!" Jon barked, and the Unsullied solider rushed on ahead, without a glance.


	32. The Lone Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Previously on The Many-Faced God...**   
>  _At Castle Cerwyn, a young boy leads Tyrion to discover Varys, who has been brutally murdered by Lord Cerwyn's men. Unaware of Tyrion, Lady Sansa commands the body be burnt. Numb and heartbroken, Tyrion returns to the chambers he shares with Davos, Idri, Yara, and Missandei..._

Missandei watched Tyrion return to their chambers with a familiar, haunted look in his eye. Many slaves she had known to look that way... like there was no light left to them, in all the world... With one glance, she knew that between the time Tyrion had left－ not an hour past－ and now, something terrible had happened... something Tyrion had been helpless to stop.

"What happened?" Davos asked gruffly, but Tyrion brushed past him, took a seat by the hearth, and stared blankly into the flames. "Tyrion, what _happened_?"

"Lord Tyrion..." Missandei said, more gently, "are you alright?" Tyrion did not answer, did not even glance her way. "I believe he is in shock," she quietly informed the others.

"Are we safe?" Yara asked, taking a short step forward. "Yes, or no, Tyrion?"

A soft and hurried rapping came at the door, and Missandei glanced over in fright. All of them fell quiet. Except Tyrion, who spoke at last, a near-inaudible mumble.

"Don't open it..."

" _What happened?_ " Ser Davos demanded again, quietly. Tyrion stared numbly at the hearth. He flinched when the knocking came again at the door: three hurried taps.

"Varys is dead," Tyrion murmured softly.

" _What?_ How?" Davos demanded in a strained whisper, his eyes darting to the door, which had grown suspiciously quiet.

Tyrion spoke so softly that Missandei strained to hear him, even two paces off. "Lord Cerwyn's men..." Tyrion's mouth twisted, " _slaughtered_ him. Lady Sansa was involved... Though, I don't believe she meant for him to die. She ordered his body burned." Tyrion paused and added, distantly to himself, "The Great Game was always bigger than she anticipated."

"Lord Tyrion," the urgent whisper rushed through the crack in the door. _That's Lady Sansa's voice,_ Missandei realized with wide eyes. "My Lord..." Sansa went on, sounding as frightened as Missandei felt, "I give you my word I am alone, I _must_ speak with you!"

Ser Davos looked to Tyrion, a flabbergasted expression on his face. Tyrion shook his head ruefully, with a sickened smile. "Lady Sansa learned from the best..."

 _No,_ Missandei thought, and rose suddenly. _She did not..._

Ignoring every pair of eyes in the room, the Eastern Lady crossed over to the pegs, which held their traveling pouches. Reaching into her own, Missandei drew out a wine skin. Before leaving Winterfell, Missandei had admitted to Queen Daenerys a fondness for the occasional drink, in her leisure. The Queen had sent her South, to this wretched place, with a large skin of wine and a three-part order: _"Keep it in sight at all times, and drink from no other. Do not let Tyrion touch a drop of it."_

 _Free women make their own choices,_ Missandei reminded herself, and tossed the wine skin into Tyrion's lap. "Drink," she urged him quietly, with a darting glance at the door. The knocking had gone quiet again. Tyrion glanced from her, to the door, to the wine skin. Confusion and hesitance were a grim show on his face.

Idri spoke up loudly, in the Dothraki tongue. " _Khaleesi_ says he is not to have any of the wine she sent with us!"

Missandei gave Idri an exasperated look, though she was gladdened to know that even if Sansa had heard the High Priestess' words through the door, she would have no way of understanding them. The Dothraki tongue took years of study, or complete immersion, to grasp with any proficiency.

"Faith, Priestess," Missandei replied gently in Dothraki, and turned her attention back to Tyrion. The knocking came at the door, more insistently.

Tyrion was still glancing nervously between Missandei, the wine skin, and the door. Two quick steps brought Missandei to his side, and she knelt, murmured as quietly as she could.

"I have seen the Game of Masters, Lord Tyrion," she said soberly. "I was bought, sold, and plundered among them many times, as they won or lost. Your Great Game will play by the same rules as the theirs... We _must_ win, or we _will die_." Missandei paused a few moments, and Tyrion looked at her strangely. Understanding bloomed on his face before he glanced, pained, at the wine skin.

It was not that she lacked sympathy for the man; it had been an arduous journey for Tyrion to give up the drink, and he was only _just_ recently seeing great success in his effort... It pained her to ask this of him, but the knocking came again, more insistent, more hurried.

 _If that door does not open one way, it will open another..._ "Trust me," Missandei urged Tyrion softly. "Drink."

With a slow nod, Tyrion brought the wine skin to his lips and sipped. One gulp turned to two, followed by a desperate third before he ripped the skin away from his lips, scowling. His frown deepened after Missandei pinched his cheeks _hard_ , producing a ruddy blush.

"Good," Missandei said softly, rising. "Slouch. And remember to slur, if you speak." Her dark eye held him until he nodded, and Missandei turned.

Yara Greyjoy was watching her curiously, with an agreeable look on her face. Missandei nodded to the fighting woman's sword, then glanced at the door. With an obliging grin, Yara rose and stood behind the swing of the door, out of sight, holding a readied stance.

With a nervous breath, Missandei glanced once more at Tyrion, and pulled the latch free.

***

"Lady Sansa," Missandei offered with a tight smile, and Tyrion was impressed with the tact; it would have been tempting, in such a tense situation, to open the door with a warm, innocent look.

A worse liar would have done so, acting as if nothing had ever transpired, or ever _would_ between the two women. A sweet smile would have rung false, after the harsh treatment Missandei had endured from Lady Stark. "Apologies for the delay," Missandei went on stiffly, as if annoyed, "High Priestess Idri and I were just offering _silent_ prayers to the Great Stallion..."

 _Missandei of Naath... I underestimated you_... Tyrion could not see Sansa's face from where he sat, but her hesitation was palpable, even from here.

"Lady Missandei... That's... quite alright. Is Lord Tyrion with you, I have an urgent matter I must discuss with him."

Her voice rent itself in his ears. _You killed Varys,_ Tyrion thought, despairing. _Without even the nerve to hold the blade yourself, you killed him! You're no better than Cersei..._ His mouth twisted and his breath came heavier. Tyrion drank down another gulp of wine before he realized the skin was at his mouth. When he wrenched the skin away, a few drops spilled over his lips and ran onto his pale gray tunic.

Missandei cast an embarrassed look over her shoulder, widened her eyes at him before turning back to Sansa. "I'm afraid our Lord Hand is not... feeling well, this evening," Missandei replied with great hesitance.

Ser Davos, standing at his side, nudged him slightly and jerked an impatient gaze at the wine skin, then the door. "Say something!" Davos mouthed with silent fury.

"I'm _fiiine_ ," Tyrion moaned, and the grieved hollow in his chest added some authenticity to the drunken ruse. Missandei looked over her shoulder again, grimacing at him. From that look alone, Tyrion decided the woman could have done as well in theater as she had done serving the Queen.

"Send her in, my Lady," Tyrion slurred, kicking his boots off and letting them fall however they may; it was always the first thing he did, whenever he had found himself drunk and in a chair. Missandei hesitated, and Tyrion said loudly, impatiently, "Your Hand _commands_ it my Lady. Let her in, let her in." He beckoned sloppily with his hand, despising how easily the drunken behaviors came to him. _Years of practice,_ he thought with a grimace.

Missandei opened the door and gestured Sansa through with a pained nod. In the same moment, Yara broke her defensive stance to lean quickly, casually against the nearest wall, crossing her arms in her usual unfriendly manner. Sansa stepped quickly through the door with murmured thanks, and barely glanced at the others before her gaze fell on him.

"Lady Sansa!" Tyrion crowed quietly. "To _what_ do I owe the pleasure?" He took another long sip of wine, and tried to take as little of it as he could into his mouth before he swallowed.

"I come with terrible news," Sansa fretted. The frost in her dark, lidded eyes did not match the catch in her voice, nor the glisten of tears. "Lord Varys has been killed."

The shock on his face could not seem anything but genuine; Tyrion had not expected the truth from Lady Sansa. Then again, Sansa had not expected such recklessness from Lord Cerwyn. _She lies even better than Cersei..._

"No..." It was all he could manage, and it took great effort to force the word to seem a grieved denial, and not a bitter contradiction. _Not killed..._ he grimaced, and fresh tears spilled down his ruddy cheeks. _Murdered..._

"What do you mean, killed?" Davos demanded. "Who killed him?"

"I don't know," Sansa replied, her voice quavering. "It could have been anyone. It's no secret the North can be unwelcoming of strangers, and they've been at war for _years_..."

"Now," Davos returned, "if you don't know who killed him, then how do you _know_ he's been killed?"

Tyrion watched them with unfocused eyes, his brow furrowed heavily, as if he were confused. Meanwhile, he observed keenly.

Lady Sansa glanced at Davos, and Tyrion watched the Northern Lady assess him quickly, toe-to-head. The quick, sizing glance was familiar. He remembered that the first times Tyrion had seen it, the sizing look had come along with unsolicited advice from Littlefinger.

 _"You can read a man's entire life by what he wears,"_ Balish used to brag in his oily, rasping voice. _"You can know how he thinks by the he way he carries himself. You can know his whole mind at first glance, if you know what to look for, and how to look for it..."_ Petyr Balish had been a snake, and among the most venomous in King's Landing. A knot formed in his stomach to remember Sansa Stark had been the one to out-maneuver the dangerously perceptive man.

"I wish my network were as extensive as his," Sansa lamented to Davos, and turned her attention quickly back to Tyrion. "If it was, I might have _known_ in time to _do_ something, but I only found out after it was too late... I am sorry for your loss, I know you were very close with Lord Varys. I've come to offer my help. I will _find_ the men who did this and bring them to justice," Sansa vowed.

Tyrion ducked his head before the rage overcame his features, and sobbed. How he had hoped Lady Sansa was not, after all, the ambitious liar that she now seemed, but there could be no more doubt; her words, spoken not an hour past, rung clear again to his mind.

 _"Clean this up," Sansa commanded to Lord Cley, her voice strained, "quickly. And send the men who did this to wait outside my chambers..."_ Tyrion choked again, remembering the disdainful look Sansa had given the mangled corpse of his most dear friend.

 _You know exactly who killed Varys..._ There was no need to feign the choking sobs, and he moaned for a moment, searching for what to say. The Great Game was rusty to him, that much had been made clear ever since he first returned to Westeros; it had been _years_ since he last played the Game in earnest.

 _What would you say, if it were Cersei?_ Tyrion's wretched sister was as manipulative as they came, quick with a lie, and more dangerous from afar than she was in front of you. Every word out of Sansa's mouth reminded him more of Cersei, and less of the frightened child he had been forced to wed in King's Landing. In the years since, Lady Sansa had grown as keen to the Great Game as Tyrion had grown dull. _Think_ , he commanded himself, though the thought came in Daenerys' stern voice. Even thinking about the Queen made him feel stronger, cleverer. He moaned again, his face turned down, head rolling drunkenly back and forth.

 _Think_... Everyone learned the play the Game from _someone_ ; such intricately woven lies and counter-lies did not come naturally, not without practice. If Lady Sansa had learned to play the Game from Cersei and Littlefinger, then she should have the same blind spots. Littlefinger had been as perceptive as men came, and even more suspicious, but Balish only ever trusted himself. In that, he had been isolated, with no one left willing to stand for him when his falsehoods had finally collapsed, and crushed him.

Cersei was not half as keen as Littlefinger, but a better liar. Even as children, his sister had believed her own lies for truth, and never seemed to realize when she had ensnared herself in her own web. And she was arrogant, always believing she had the most power, that her lies were as convincing to others as they were to herself.

Jerking his head up－ as Tyrion had often done, whenever he _very nearly_ succumbed to the drink－ Tyrion took a short swig of wine. He took half the gulp down his throat, waited on the other half while he stumbled forward from is chair. Collapsing to one knee, Tyrion took Sansa's hand roughly in his own, and swallowed.

"Thank you," Tyrion choked out, his head bowed to hide his disgust. Forcing a twisted smile, he turned his face to Sansa, who was staring at him with wide, uncomfortable eyes. Tyrion brought her hand to his lips and kissed it wetly. "You have as much honor as your father. He would be _proud_ of you."

Tyrion watched his ardent words carry the wine-breath to her face, and Sansa contained herself to a strong blink. She nodded tightly, and pulled him to his feet. Tyrion stood unsteadily, leaning his weight on her a moment before he turned away, and waddled back to his chair. Snatching the wine skin from where it had dropped, he collapsed into the same chair as before.

"My apologies, Lady Sansa," Tyrion slurred, swallowing hard. "I believe I need some time _alone_..." He gagged on the word. "Grief... does not suit me as well as wine, I'm afraid."

"Of course, I will leave you," Sansa said at once with a quick curtsy. "I will begin the search for Varys' killers at once. You have my word."

"I am a lucky man," Tyrion said thickly, "to have the word of Ned Stark's daughter... Come, friends!" Tyrion addressed the others, waving them forward with a clumsy hand. "Come. Let us drink together. To _Varys._ " Tyrion hoisted the wine skin and tilted it up over his head, pressed his tongue over the spout, feigning deep swallows. He let a drop spill over his lip before he lowered it. "No one else is drinking," Tyrion lamented, his head rolling softly to one side.

Missandei looked at him as if she were mortified, then turned a tight smile to Sansa. "My Lady..." she said with awkward formality, escorted Sansa to the door, and opened it. Sansa stepped through, cast a quick look back. A smile twitched the corners of her cool blue eyes, as the door swung closed.

***

"Well then," Davos said brightly after a long pause. "It seems Lady Sansa is on our side, after all," he finished smugly, with a meaningful glance at the door.

Now, a man who lives as long as the Onion Knight learns to consider every possibility. It could be that Lady Sansa's _ruse_ was no ruse at all; it _could be,_ that she was a woman raised with the Northern chill in her bones, and bore the best intentions, if not the best attitude. For King Jon's sake, Davos kept that hope alive, but for himself... Davos thought it plain foolish to trust Sansa after all that. In his many years of experience, a liar did not tend to stop at one lie.

"Yes," Missandei agreed. "I admit, I had not dared to hope as much. It seems I may have misjudged her." The woman's dark eyes were fixed on the door, tight with a malice that contradicted her gentle, relieved tone. _Keen as a knife, that one,_ Davos thought appreciatively.

A choked sob from Tyrion pulled all their eyes. The man was weeping in earnest, his face buried in his hands, and Ser Davos shuffled his feet with his eyes down.

It would taste a lie to say the old smuggler had never wept. Losing his sons in battle had produced howls from him that still haunted his heart. But Davos had made certain there was not another man within _two_ earshots before let that any of it burst out of himself.

 _Should I... hug him?_ Davos wondered, glancing uncertainly at the sobbing man. The High Priestess spared him, crouching beside Tyrion and setting her hands on his shoulders.

" _There_ , Lord Hand..." Idri crooned. "Varys rides now with him _ancestors_. In death, _all_ that broken become whole again. In death, we ride across night sky on _starlight_ , with strength that never fails. _Me nem nesa._ "

"It is known," Missandei agreed solemnly, and added her hand to Tyrion's shoulder.

 _Thank the Gods for the gentle hearts of women,_ Davos thought. "Varys was a good man," he gruffed, arms folded stiffly behind his back. "He'll be remembered as such." Glancing around awkwardly, he caught Yara Greyjoy's eye. The grizzled woman still leaned, cross-armed against the wall, and arched an eyebrow at him. Davos scoffed and shuffled, not sure if he was embarrassed or proud of his best efforts at consolation.

Tyrion had steadied some. His breath was quieter, more controlled as each one came. After a few long, quiet minutes, he spoke at a whisper. "We must escape this place." The growing storm was whistling, somewhere past the stone walls, loud enough that even old Davos could hear it. "As soon as possible," Tyrion added bitterly.

"How?" Yara asked bluntly, keeping her voice low and moving away from the door. "None of us have ever been here before. Even if we knew a way out, we won't last an hour in that storm before we freeze to death."

"Will the common people shelter us?" Missandei asked the room in a whisper, glancing between the Westerosi present. "Many of them _will_ fear Lord Cerwyn, but if we can inspire them to fight back, perhaps..."

Two soft taps at the door silenced her. A short, three-part whistle preceded a folded sheet of parchment sliding beneath the crack beneath the door. The letter was sealed with plain, white wax. Hurried footsteps quickly faded to quiet, somewhere down the short hall.

At first, no-one moved a step nearer, and Davos did not find himself any more keen on taking the first step. The Onion Knight had learned a great deal of _poisoning_ since his ascent to serving an exotic myriad of Kings and Queens; some poisons, though rare and expensive, could be applied as a powder, and taken up through the lightest touch.

After a pause, Tyrion nearly vaulted himself across the room and snatched the letter up before Davos could breathe a word of warning. As soon as opening it, the pain on Tyrion's face softened.

"What does it say?" Davos asked curiously, peering low over his shoulder. _Damned eyes..._ Davos could not make out a word from this distance; the hand print was, by far, the _smallest_ he had ever seen. Without a word, Tyrion passed him the letter. The old man held it just ahead of his nose to make the tiny handwriting out.

With a glance at the door, Davos elected not to read the letter aloud, but passed it along quietly when he was done.

_My friends,_

_I will have to be brief, as I do not expect to make it back to you. I write this from the locked closet of the orphanage. My Little Birds tell me that ten armed men have been waiting for hours outside what is, unfortunately, my only way out. They grow impatient, and I will not cower here any longer, nor will I force my Little Birds to watch me gutted._

_Brevity never did suit me, I'm afraid..._

_Lady Sansa is not to be trusted. She has embraced her heraldry as Queen in the North, and allied herself with Lord Cerwyn. By all accounts, Lord Cerwyn would make for as good a King as Joffery. Sansa overestimates her influence with him. She will not be able to control him the way she expects. Make no mistake, my friends, Lord Cerwyn is a dangerous man, and far more clever than he lets on. Be careful. Take no food or water that does not come with a song. Speak little and quietly on matters of intrigue. The walls are listening._

_Lady Jonelle is shut away somewhere in the Castle. My Little Birds tell me she has not been seen in days. She despises her older brother, and I am told she will make a valuable ally for you, if you can find her."_

The next paragraph was set a ways down from the rest, and written in a hastier hand. It was not meant for him, but Davos was a curious man by nature, and could not help himself but to read it anyways.  
  


_Tyrion,_

_Long have you placed your wholehearted trust in me, as none have done in years. In all my life, I have never called anyone "friend," the way that I call you. I thank you for your loyalty. It has been my honor to serve with you._

_Valar morghulis,_

_Varys_

***

Unhurried, Sansa rose with a slight smile, relieved to be spared any more time pressing her ear against the thick, oaken door. It was embarrassing, not Queenly in the least, to be doing her own eavesdropping.

Still, she knew now that Ser Davos, at least, was convinced of her loyalty, and that even Missandei was leaning towards trusting her. Lady Sansa doubted very much that the wide-eyed Dothraki crone, in her tattered leathers and baubles, had understood a single word of what had transpired. Likewise, Sansa wished she could have understood what the old woman had said through the door, earlier... Something about the Khaleesi, that much was certain...

Unable to solve a puzzle she had no pieces to, Sansa tried to put the Dothraki woman's mysterious outburst out of her mind and focus on the positives. Tyrion Lannister was as much a drunken wastrel as she remembered, more so even. Sansa wondered how a man of such crippling dependence had ever been appointed as Hand of the Dragon Queen, but Sansa supposed that even a drunken wastrel like Tyrion had his uses. He was easy enough to manipulate, for one thing.

 _And his name, for another... Perhaps she'll use him as a bargaining chip, when she reaches King Landing._ Sansa scowled at the thought. Hoping the Dragon Queen would perish in the Long Night was an effortless wish, but without any assurances, she could only plan for the worst. That much was easy enough. She had been doing it for as long as she could remember, let alone after Jon had returned to Winterfell firmly quashed beneath the Conqueror's creamy white thumb.

Rounding the hallway, Sansa drew herself up and nodded politely to the five men waiting outside her chambers. "Come in," she said as she brushed past them.

"Your Grace," each of the men greeted her in kind, and she nodded to them one-by-one. She sized them up, toe-to-head, one at a time, the way Littlefinger had showed her. Most of them were nobodies, with plain, overused boots and sturdy garb that bore no flair beyond the standard Cerwyn sigil. Two of them were married. They all stood in a secure manner, men confident in their position.

"You will all answer at the same time, is that understood?" Sansa asked brusquely, and smiled when each one nodded understanding. "Your _actions_ with The Spider. Who gave the order?"

"Nobody, Your Grace," they each replied in their own way. Sansa fixed her eyes on one man, one of the married men, whose voice had quavered a bit in a way the others had not.

"So why did you do it?" Sansa asked. Each of them replied that it was for the good of the North, for her glory, or for keeping the children safe. She assessed each answer as it came, and nodded when each of them had given their piece. Their reasoning was sound enough, and though the Spider's death had been premature, she could not deny the comfort she felt to know the Spider was gone, and his magnificent web was open for the taking.

"Very well. Leave me." Sansa waved a hand dismissively, and the men bowed and turned to leave. "Not you," Sansa said sharply to the man whose voice had quavered. His eyes bugged, and he swallowed, but stopped where he stood and faced her. When the others had shut the door behind them, she smiled sweetly and approached.

"You don't have to be afraid," Sansa said casually, touching a gloved hand to the man's arm. He sighed in relief.

"What's your name, soldier?" Sansa asked in her gentlest voice.

"Kovin, Your Grace."

Her voice was as sweet as honey as she went on. "Kovin, then. I'm afraid if you don't tell me _what_ it is that you _know_ , something terrible might happen," Sansa paused while the soldier considered her words, "...to your wife?" Sansa finished plainly, glancing at the man's wedding ring. "It was _Kovin_ , wasn't it?"

The man gulped, and his voice shook when he spoke. "Please, Your Grace, I only know that one of the other guards was seen talking to the old man, him with the foreigners. Someone said he took the smuggler's gold."

"His name?" Sansa demanded quietly, and the man gave it immediately.

"Darry, Your Grace. Least... I _heard_ it was Darry, talking to the old man and all... takin' his gold..." the soldier stammered on, and Sansa raised her hand, quieting him.

"There," she said casually, "was that so hard?" The soldier shook his head. "Keep your ears open, bring me any and all news you hear. If I make any use of your information, your wife and children will never want for anything. There will be no need for you to wonder if something is important enough to tell me. _I_ will decide what is important, and what is not. Is that understood?" The man nodded, and bowed. "Good," she said. "Now leave me."

He complied quickly, ducking and bowing and wishing her good rest. Of course, she would find none. Good rest had been lost to her for years, now...

After the man called Kovin left, and she was left alone in blessed silence, Sansa collapsed atop her grandiose feather bed, and stared up at the finely-embroidered canopy with a satisfied smile on her face. _Not bad, for the first day here,_ Sansa commanded herself, running her hands over the soft, white fur bedspread. Immediately, she began recounting all that she had learned, and planned machinations for tomorrow morning. There was one piece of information she could not account for, and that was the thought that kept her awake, this night.

The Dothraki woman had said something, after she knocked... _something_ about Khaleesi. Perhaps something Sansa could exploit, or something meant to exploit _her_... but how was she to get usable information from a woman who could barely speak a word of the Common Tongue?

The thoughts tossed and turned with her, through the remainder of another restless night. 


	33. Alive in Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Daenerys has a strange dream. Jon and Arya catch up on years past. Jaime makes a request._

There was no comfort to be found in the darkness that took her. Daenerys tried to call out for help, but found herself without voice. Desperately, she tried to raise a hand, to reach out, to find something, _anything_ to grasp, but she was formless, nothing more than a frightened consciousness trapped within an endless shadow.

Yet even if she could not control her body, she could _feel_ it. There was a pain in her abdomen like hot pincers, a wet slick of warm blood between her legs. Some unseen force was pushing and pulling her about. When cold, phantom hands grasped her legs, pulled them apart, and began wrenching at the tender tissue there, Daenerys tried to open her mouth to scream, but there was no commanding a mouth she did not bear. Not here, in the unending dark.

 _I'm... dying,_ Daenerys realized. _But... why?_ Something had happened... But she did not think she was ready to die, yet. Though in truth, the idea did not frighten her as much as the ghostly hands digging at her softest parts, or the throbbing ache at her waist... but before long, those pains and worries dulled to memory. Soon, there was little left to her but the void.

 _Wake up, Nera..._ a man's voice called out, distant and dim, from somewhere beyond the boundless shadow. _You have to wake up..._

 _Rhaegar?... He might've called me Nera,_ she thought. Viserys had always called her _Dany_ , never _Nera..._ she had always dreamed that her oldest brother would call her by another name. But it could not be _Rhaegar_ , calling to her... he had been slain at the Trident before she was born. _Unless..._ _that was someone else, who died?_ Or, was it that someone else had been born? She _remembered_ Viserys dying...Perhaps, then, Rhaegar had lived, somehow? Daenerys could no longer recall why she had wondered, in the first place.

Without even the vaguest sense of her body, her mind was all that was left; it wandered far and freely in the timeless abyss, until past and present blurred together, along with everything else.

 _"You have to protect him..."_ a woman's broken whisper begged.

 _My son..._ Something was _wrong_. Terribly wrong. She had to find him and protect him, even if she could not remember his name. Even if she could no longer remember her own... _Where is my son!?_

_"His name... is Aegon Targaryen..."_

The witch Mirri Maz Duur cackled, her bitter glee echoed in the everlasting dark. The laugh turned to a tortured scream, and there was nothing to do but listen, as the screaming went on, and _on_.

 _Let it end..._ she begged. _Whoever I am, whatever this is... let it end._ A soft pressure at her left hand steadied her. _My hand..._ Daenerys remembered then, that she was a woman－ with name and body－ not some faceless form, floating in the dark.

 _Please, wake up..._ the man whispered again.

A part of her wondered if she ought to. For all its torment, this painless place was not half so frightening as what had come before...

A pinprick of light appeared, twinkling eagerly, and she knew that if she took but one step towards it, there would be everlasting peace. A painless freedom, unchained at last from all sense and memory of despair.

 _I could fly forever there..._ One step, and Daenerys knew she would shed tired arms for glorious wings of shining silver, spread them _wide_ ,and soar evermore amongst the stars...

 _"My Queen,"_ he was begging her, now, _"I can't... do this_ _alone..."_ The distant light dazzled, inviting her along, one last time. With a lingering look, Daenerys turned away. To her surprise, there was another light, waiting just behind her. Not a distant white speck, but a sudden, radiant splendor that danced with every color in the sky, and gone just as fast as glimpsed.

Her eyes fluttered open, focused slowly. Jon was at her bedside, his head bowed in murmured prayer, holding her hand firmly in both of his own. When he raised his eye, a joyous smile forced all the breath from his lungs. Jon brought her hand to his lips, then pressed it to his cheek.

"I thought I'd _lost_ you..."

Her fingers curled weakly, lacing through his beard. Jon kissed her hand again and held it fast, beaming, until she spoke.

"Our _son_..." The look that brought to Jon's face told her everything. _No..._

"You were bleeding..." Jon whispered, his voice broken. Daenerys remembered the sharp pain she had felt in her abdomen, before the nightmarish void had consumed her. _No... no no no._ "Maestar Wolkan did everything he could, but it was too late. He said it would be a _miracle_ if you ever woke at all..."

" _No_ ," Daenerys choked, and ripped her hand away. When she pressed it to her waist, she felt nothing there but an empty pain. Her vision swam, while a torrid ringing crawled up her throat and stuffed itself in her ears. _Please, no..._ Her heart rent itself against her ribcage.

 _Only death pays for life, Princess,_ Mirri Maz Duur reminded her smugly.

"Go!" A Dothraki woman, familiar to her somehow, grabbed Jon roughly by his leathers. The woman bore only one arm, with a white linen wrapped where the other had been. Still, she hauled Jon effortlessly to his feet and shoved him towards the door. " _Go._ You insist you stay until she wake. You say too much. Now, you _go_! Come back when _Khaleesi_ say, not before!"

"But－" Jon began once, twice, but on the thrid, Daenerys cut him off, unable to even look at him, for what they had lost.

"Go..." she begged, eyes fixed to the ceiling. " _Please_..." Jon stared a while, then left without a word. The door thudded shut behind him, shattering the stone of her face. Daenerys pressed her left hand over her mouth, the other to her waist, and choked her way through her gasping. Sicked by the nothingness beneath her fingers, she ripped her right away and pressed it, instead, to her chest.

The Dothraki woman－ _Khava_ , she remembered － sat softly beside her on the feather bed. "He will understand soon, _Khaleesi_ ," Khava consoled her, reaching over and grasping the hand still pressed against her chest. Daenerys was still sobbing into her left, eyes shut tight to the world. The woman squeezed gently, and made no effort to move her. "He needs time to heal. You both do. Now you must rest, _Khaleesi._ You bled greatly."

There was no time to argue before the world slipped away from her.

...Daenerys opened her eyes a child, dressed in thin white linen, with great round eyes staring down a long bridge, stretching far over a jade sea. A great smile took her, and she set out eagerly, setting each slippered foot faster than the last. The long, unbound silver of her hair trailed behind her while she ran.

The bridge went on and on for miles, and by the time young Daenerys realized it was growing narrower, it was too late to turn back. Every forward step brought the edges of the bridge closer, _closer_ , until she was wobbling to keep upright, arms spread out to her sides. Putting each foot as carefully as she could, she _refused_ to look down, no matter how it dragged at her.

The bridge stayed only as wide as her little feet, and though it grew no narrower, it swayed violently with every motion.

 _I am going to fall..._ Frightened eyes were pulled down at last. Miles below was a roiling ocean, black as night. She could see no sharks, no serpents, no monsters at all in the stygian waves, but she _knew_ they were there, just below the surface... and they were ravenous. They _wanted_ her to fall. They were waiting for it, _counting_ on it... Daenerys pitched to one side, her arms whirling to keep upright, barely keeping on the flimsy cord.

"This way, darling," a voice as sweet as summer rain called to her, in the mother tongue of High Valyrian. Steadying a moment, Daenerys turned forward. Through a thick fog, she could just make out the barest outline of the far shore. "You can do this," Rhaella assured. "You are the best of us, child..."

"It is so hard, _mhysa_..." Little Daenerys cried, and shrieked as finger-thin rope bucked beneath her tiny, slippered feet.

"Yes..." the word was heavy with understanding, "but you _cannot fall_ ," Rhaella reminded her, "I am with you. Now and always."

Daenerys looked down, and there saw a dragon as white as snow, hovering beneath and looking at her with loving eyes of molten gold.

"Go on, darling," Rhaella said encouragingly. Setting her jaw, young Daenerys put her arms out to her sides and planted little feet one in front of the other. Every step forward, she _grew..._ taller and fairer, until at last, she set her foot on the far shore, a woman grown.

The view took her breath away, but it was the first to fade from memory when Daenerys woke, soaked in cold sweat. Yathi and Khava looked down worriedly on her face.

"She is awake," Yathi breathed, relieved. "I draw you a bath, _Khaleesi._ You should not sleep again, soaked in the sweat of a nightmare. It it known." Yathi was already slipping through the small door, adjacent to her chambers, where the washroom would be.

Daenerys nodded gratefully, wondering if it had been a nightmare at all, by the end. Her stomach lurched to remember how perilous unsteady the bridge had become, how many times it had nearly pitched her into the waves. _My mother..._ she wondered if that was what Queen Rhaella had really sounded like. The sweet, gentle voice from her dream was almost nothing like her own.

 _My son..._ Daenerys shivered, and the curse of knowledge flooded her waking mind.

Khava sat herself down gently on the bed, the opposite side from where Daenerys lay, shivering. "You will heal, _Khaleesi_ ," Khava said softly. "Three of my wives have lived through this pain. Love them as I may, you are stronger than all of them."

"I am so tired of being strong," Daenerys moaned in Dothraki, and Khava laughed bitterly.

"Me too, _Khaleesi..._ "

Yathi returned then, from the washroom. "The bath is drawn. I put oil of lavender in, your favorite, and good for healing," Yathi said brightly, approaching the bed. "Are you ready now, _Khaleesi?_ "

Daenerys nodded weakly in reply, and Yathi slid her arm behind Daenerys' shoulders and hoisted her up, despite the gasp of pain it produced.

Leaning heavily on the Dothraki woman, Daenerys limped along while Yathi brought her through the small door, into the washroom, where a steaming bath was waiting in a claw-footed copper tub. The fragrance of the lavender was as heavy in the air as the steam, and Daenerys found herself staring uncertainly at the hot water.

"I am... thirsty," Daenerys whispered, staring at the bath. _Will it burn me, now that my destiny is done?_ There was something _missing_ inside of her, but she was not sure if it was the child she had lost in the Night, or the fire that lived within her... _Or both,_ Daenerys thought with a shudder.

Yathi set her on a padded stool while Khava produced a skin. Daenerys waved off Yathi's helpful hand, took the skin herself, and drank eagerly. She had expected plain water, but the watery liquid was rich with unfamiliar flavors, and sweetened with honey. The tea dribbled over her chin as Daenerys gulped half of it down, wiping her mouth when she was done.

"How long has it been?" Daenerys asked.

"You sleep for a night, before you see Jon Snow," Yathi mentioned, running a comb through her tangled, silver locks, "then again one more day. Night will fall soon."

"How many..." Daenerys asked numbly, eyes locked on the steaming bathwater, and found she did not have the courage to finish the question.

 _No heat has never burned me, before..._ but the thought did nothing to convince her to move. The Dothraki women did not answer her, but looked uncertainly at each other. "How many of us are _left?_ " Daenerys asked dutifully, forcing the words out. The telling quiet of the two women erased the last of her desire to know the answer.

"No more questions," Khava said sternly. "First you must heal, _then_ you will lead." The one-armed woman dipped her hand into the bathwater, and Daenerys felt herself relax, grateful to know the hot water was safe to touch, and relieved to have another terrible question left unanswered, for now.

Reaching a trembling hand up, Daenerys took the arm Yathi offered, and let the woman settle her in the copper tub. The warm, fragrant water was, perhaps, the finest thing she had ever felt in her life. The Dothraki women fussed over her; Yathi ran a comb through the tangled mess of her hair, while Khava sang softly.

Tender muscles loosened some, beneath aching skin, yet none of it did anything to ease the pain in her heart. _Our son..._ Daenerys closed her eyes, sank lower in the water, and let the tears slide freely down her face. With guilt, she prayed Jon was finding some sort of comfort, after she had sent him away...

***

 _Fool_ , Jon cursed himself as the door to Daenerys' chambers slammed shut behind him. _What were you thinking, mentioning the child?_

But Daenerys had _asked_ him; it had been the _first thing_ she asked, and he was not accustomed to keeping secrets, let alone from _her_.

 _How did she even know, to ask?_ Jon shook his head and cursed himself a fool again.

Last night, Jon had not been permitted in the room, while Maester Wolkan did his best to save Daenerys. When the timid Maester had finally emerged, soaked in blood, he first declared that if the Queen woke before the morning, she would likely survive... but he went on to say that would be lucky to wake at all, after the way she had hemorrhaged...

_Something about the Maester's tone told Jon there was more. When he asked what else, Maester Wolkan shook his head, resolute. "By the Maester's Oath, I am not at liberty to share the information, my Lord, not even with the Queen's closest ally."_

_"She is my wife," Jon growled the correction, seizing the twice-shocked Maester by his vestments. "We were wed in secret, in sight of the Old Gods. You can ask my sister, if you don't believe me, but you will tell me what it is that you know!" Jon shouted, then added softly, desperately, "Please..."_

_Maester Wolkan shuffled a bit, considering, and answered at last. "Queen Daenerys... must have been expecting," Wolkan said sadly. "A miscarriage, my Lord. Not surprising, given all her stress, let alone the recent, and rather severe abdominal trauma. I..." The Maester paused, reached beneath his robes and produced a small bundle of bloody cloth. "I'd thought she might want to burn the remains, with the rest of those we lost in the Great War..."_

_"Show me," Jon commanded. He did not heed the Maester's warnings, did not yet understand that he would regret looking for the rest of his life..._

Jon grimaced and shook his head, trying to displace the image of the horrific, bloody mass that should have grown to be his _child_. His _son_ , according to the woman who would have been the boy's mother... Through the uncrowded halls Jon walked swiftly, aimlessly, until his aching feet carried him into his bedroom.

Shutting the door roughly behind him, Jon stared at it a long time, breathing harder by the moment. All he wanted was for Daenerys to push through the door just after him, in all her splendid strength and resolve, to tell him she was sorry for sending him away, to _tell_ him how and why they _must_ go on, after everything that had happened. After what they had lost...

But Daenerys would not come－ _could_ not－ and despite the seething anger it brought him, he knew that much. How pale and lifeless she looked, when at last he had found her eyes open...

 _Fool,_ Jon cursed himself again. _Damned, bloody fool!_ A furious shout built in his chest until it burst from him, and Jon struck his fist against the door, then turned and slumped roughly against it. He slid down to the cold stone floor and stared numbly at the hearth, burning low across the room.

A firm knocking came some time later, long enough that his legs had cramped. Late morning light illuminated the frosted frosted glass window, high on the South wall of his bedroom. Stiffly, Jon stood and pulled the door open.

Arya was there, and before Jon could say a word, his sister threw herself into him. Her slender arms wrapped tight around his neck, and though he felt stiff and cold at first, Jon found himself hugging her tighter, rocking her back and forth a bit, ignoring the throbbing ache it brought to his arms.

His sister did not release her grip until Jon set her down, swaying on his feet. He was _tired_ , more wearied than he had felt in the whole of his life. The stiff muscles in his legs sighed in gratitude as he stumbled back, sank onto his bed. Jon coughed violently, clutching uselessly at his tender throat; the insides of it had been rashed and scalded by the scorching winds and smoke in the Godswood, though he hardly noticed it unless a coughing fit took him. Arya sat beside him, kicking her boots off and folding her legs underneath her. They sat in mutual silence for a long time.

"Gendry?" Jon asked roughly, after most of an hour had passed.

"He'll live," Arya replied with a smug grin that did not match the ruin of her voice, nor the great black circles under her eyes. "He's asleep," she added, with a nod towards her bedroom, "I expect he won't wake for a while."

"I'm happy for you," Jon said, and grimaced to hear what a ruin his voice was. He coughed.

"You don't seem happy," Arya replied knowingly, and Jon shook his low-hanging head. He could not speak of it... of his _son._ The child that Jonlearned of and _lost_ in the very same moment... the bloody mass that Wolkan warned him _twice_ not to look at... the stain of the life lost was still on his hands...

Arya let it drop without pressing any further. "When's the last time you slept?" Arya asked instead, after a long pause. Jon felt himself shrug.

"Sleep," Arya insisted. "And don't force me to slip you milk of the poppy, like Gendry did. You need to rest. Grey Worm and Jaime are still gathering the dead, and all the wounded are being tended... _Don't_ argue," Arya cut him off sternly before his mouth could as much as open. "Sleep." 

With one hand, Arya pushed him back, and his eyes shut the moment his head touched the fur spread. A blessed, dreamless sleep took him, until he woke well into in the evening. Arya was gone, and Jon had been undressed to his smallclothes, and tucked beneath the furs. His skin felt fresh and cool, as if he had washed, though his throat still felt as if he had swallowed a red-hot poker, and his lungs ached with every breath. Glancing at his hands, Jon could have wept to see them clean.

On his bedside table lay a tray of bread, cheese, and a large jug of the sweet, nourishing tea that－ for centuries－ the Maesters of the North had brewed to promote rapid healing after battle. The sweet tang of yams, beets, sage, catmint and Northern moss, watered down heavily and sweetened with honey soothed the rashing itch in his throat and filled his stomach with warmth. The first cup had been poured for him, and he gulped it down. He had meant to ignore the bread and cheese, to move along quickly, but after his second cup, straight from the flagon, Jon found himself swallowing bread and cheese faster than he could chew.

"Good," Arya said suddenly. Jon jumped and whirled, wondering how she could have managed to enter his room without his knowing. More likely, he decided, she had never left, and he had been so delirious on first waking that he had simply not seen her. She was still as stone in her usual chair, tucked into the corner of his bedroom, by the hearth. "I thought you might go for the door." Arya slipped lithely from her chair and moved closer to him, inspected his face. "You look better."

Jon nodded. He _felt_ better, more so than he had assumed he ever could. Though the ache of grief still lay heavy in his heart, and physically, he felt as weak as he ever had been, but his mind felt sharp and refreshed.

"Can you stand?" Arya asked, and Jon nodded and stood slowly, wincing all the while. There were wounds all over him, taken in battle and forgotten until now, gashes and contusions that went as deep as bone. "Finish your tea," she insisted when he was done, and Jon gulped the last of it down, straight from the flagon. When he set it down, a clean pair of breeches landed with a soft thud, just beside him, followed by a smallshirt. "Now get dressed."

"Seven Hells, Arya... Were you always this willful?" Jon asked, knowing the answer. Stiffly, grimacing all the while, Jon pulled himself into the clothes. "Is... is Daenerys－"

"She's fine. Hasn't left her room yet, but I'm sure I'd have heard if she was dead." Jon flinched. "Sorry..." Arya added diffidently.

"Has she sent for me?" Jon asked, but Arya shook her head.

"Nobody has come since you fell asleep. I left once or twice, to... watch overJaime and Grey Worm, but I'd have heard if someone came by here."

Jon sighed heavily to learn he could not go straight to Daenerys, and decided he had better talk about something else. "What do you mean, 'watch over?'" Jon asked, not missing the odd way she had said it.

"It's hard to explain," Arya replied with a reticent shrug.

"Try," Jon urged her, and she paused a long time. In the quiet, Jon found himself wondering about Daenerys... thinking about the bloody rags that Jon had thrust, horrified, back into the Maester Wolkan's hands... _Gods, why did I have to look?_... " _Please,_ Arya _."_

With her brow furrowed, she nodded. "It's a long story," she began, but she launched into it at once. Arya told him of Jaqen H'gar, _the Faceless Man_ , whom she had met years prior, when Jon and the rest of the realm had all assumed her dead. Arya told him about her series of captors, her eventual voyage to Braavos, how she had slept in rags on the steps of the House of Black and White for weeks, before Jaqen had finally accepted her into the fold...

"Would you prefer the whole truth?" Arya asked him at this point, and added before he could answer, "you can't say anything, if you say yes... I know keeping secrets isn't really your thing."

Jon had been about to say yes, but considered the weight of her words. Torn between his desire to know the whole truth, and his unwillingness to hide any part of it, he shrugged. "Tell me what you think I should know," Jon said finally. Arya grinned dryly a moment, and went on.

"It started with cadavers..." Arya described how, every day, she had prepared a fresh corpse for internment, and how impersonal it had become, after barely a week. "I learned where all the weak points were... stomach, lungs, spine... the heart, and every major vein that runs to it. When Jaqen thought I was ready, I started training to play the Game of Faces."

"The Game of Faces?" Jon asked with an arched eyebrow.

"Lying," Arya admitted with a shrug. "Lying so well that you never really lie, because you use the truth to tell lies. It's how you win the Game. It's how I can see a lie on someone's face before they even say it aloud..." Arya paused a long time, considering, then shook her head slightly. Jon did not ask what she had considered telling him, then. "After I learned to play, they trained me to kill. Daggers, blades, swords, staves, bare hands... "

What she described next sounded more like torture than training, and Jon said as much. Arya only shrugged, refusing to say a word against the Faceless Man. "I was always free to leave," she told him. "To admit who I was, and go home. I wanted to stay," Arya admitted. "I _wanted_ to _become_ no-one... but Nymeria wouldn't let me. Every night when I slept, I ran with the wolves, and every morning I would remember that I was Arya Stark of Winterfell... I knew that one day, Arya Stark would have to go home."

"Father always said you had the wolf-blood in you," Jon recalled fondly, and Arya nodded with a smile. Neither one of them spoke for a time. "I miss him," Jon sighed.

"I did too... for a long time. But I don't anymore." Arya said, and Jon glanced at her, shocked. "Everyone dies," she said knowingly. "And everything I ever loved about father is in you, and in me... And we're still alive."

"And Sansa," Jon added with a half-smile. " _Gods_ , I hope she's okay... I expect we'll hear from her soon, with the storm cleared up..."

"I'm sure she's fine," Arya said easily, and dove back into her story. "After I trained for a while, I... did something I wasn't supposed to. Something I wasn't _ready_ to do..." she went on to describe how she had been, quite literally, _blinded_ by her ambition, adding quickly that she did not regret it and would do it again, even knowing the outcome. Jon learned how her time spent blind had sharpened her hearing beyond wildest imagining, and forced her to fight in an entirely new way.

"They made you fight, _blind?_ " Jon asked, unable to believe it, but she only shrugged.

"Every day I got better," she went on as if he had not spoken. "Eventually, I got my sight back. It wasn't much longer before I came home. I had planned to go straight to King's Landing and kill Cersei, but then I found out you were alive, and in Winterfell," the way she said it concluded the long tale.

"That's..." Jon was at a loss. "You're not... you're _fucking_ with me, aren't you?"

Arya laughed in a breathy way, ducking her head, but shaking it all the same. Jon laughed with her, wincing at the ache it brought. They sat quietly for a time.

"I'm glad you came home," Jon said, laying a hand on her shoulder, " _little wolf."_ Jon mussed his little sister's hair suddenly, chuckling at the wide-eyed look it brought to her.

"Me too," Arya replied, though her grin faded quickly. "But, I'm still going to kill Cersei," Arya vowed, so seriously that Jon had trouble finding a reply.

A firm knocking came at the door. "Your... Grace?" Jaime called hesitantly. Jon turned to look at Arya, but she was already tucked into a chair in the corner of the room. A throwing knife twirled in her hands idly, glinting in the late afternoon light that came through the frosted window. Jon had not realized the whole day had passed by already.

"Come in," Jon commanded, and the door opened.

Jaime entered, and nodded sheepishly to Arya, who had her wide, wild eyes fixed on him. All the while, she spun the blade deftly between the fingers of one hand. "Wasn't sure what to call you," Jaime said in his usual easy manner. "Most of the men are calling you _King Jon_ , though I recall you bent the knee to the Dragon Queen..."

"What do you want, Jaime?" Jon's gratitude clashed with his impatience. Even Arya had seemed impressed with how Jaime had stepped up, and helped organize the collection of countless dead and wounded, without any more command than the first one Jon had given him, just after the Great War's sudden finish. Still, Jon's patience for the man's cocksure attitude was thin, at best, and to _trust him_ was plainly foolish.

"The dead have been gathered together... _piled_ , really," Jaime admitted with a grimace. "Tomorrow morning, we ought to light the pyres. The temperature is coming up rather quickly. It's dropping now, with the sun, but if we wait any longer," Jaime paused, "Well you know, the smell... In any case, I believe it would everyone some good if you and the Queen were there to say something. Everyone's feeling a bit _down_ , if you can imagine..."

"Thank you," Jon said seriously, despite the way the man's flippant attitude dragged at his temper; though the haunted look about Jaime plainly did not match his easy manner. "What you did... That is no easy thing." Jon grimaced to even imagine how many bodies there would be, in every and all states of decay... near two hundred thousand men, women, and children...

Jaime looked almost taken aback for a moment, _almost_ , before the grin crawled back onto his face. "Grey Worm helped more than I did, I assure you, and I should say that he's _still_ down there, trying to make sure the dead burn with their own. Though I..." The hesitance was plain on his face, but he went on, "I, on the other hand, was hoping I could be dismissed, to tend to Ser Brienne."

"She's alive?" Arya asked. "I'd heard she wouldn't last until morning."

"The woman is as stubborn as ever," Jaime said fondly, but his face fell when he went on. "She still won't wake, _yet_..." the last word came sternly, all flippancy forgotten.

Jon nodded. "You've done enough. More than I expected," he admitted. "You're relieved of duty until Ser Brienne is as she was." _Or dead,_ Jon thought to himself, but of course, he said nothing of it.

"Thank you," Jaime said genuinely, and turned at once.

"Jaime," Jon stopped him, and looked him straight in the eye while he went on. "If you're caught trying to leave Winterfell, I'll have you hanged for a traitor."

Jaime's eyes widened a moment, then he grinned. "Smart man. If... that's all?"

Jon nodded shortly, and Jaime disappeared through the door without looking back. When he was gone, Jon turned to Arya. "Do you think we can trust him?"

"He's been honest, since he got here," she said knowingly, with a noncommittal shrug. "And he's honest about Brienne. That's all I know, for sure."

Jon sighed. "I suppose that's enough for now," he allowed, then went on harshly, "but if that man as much as _thinks_ of betraying us－"

"I'll handle it," Arya promised with a wry grin, slipping her throwing knife back into her loose linen sleeve. Jon nodded gratefully, and sat quietly for a while, until that wretched image crawled back into his mind... the dark, bloody mass... _my son_... Jon gagged, and took a shuddering breath.

"So," he choked out, desperate for the distraction, "you can _see_ lies? Like, really see them?" Jon asked numbly, and Arya nodded.

"But that part of it isn't quite so..." She struggled a moment. "Do you know what a _'_ _tell'_ is?" Arya asked instead, and Jon shook his head. "When someone lies, unless they're someone who can win the Game of Faces, their face will do something it doesn't usually do, something it _only_ does when they lie. Everyone has their own tell. Some people look away, some people bite their lip, or touch their face..."

"So, you look for the tells?" Jon asked curiously, and Arya nodded. "How do you know what someone's _tell_ is, if you don't know them?"

"You have to ask the right questions first. Or watch them long enough that you don't have to do the asking yourself. You watch their face, see what it does when they tell the truth, and when they lie."

"What if someone never lies?" Jon asked. "How would you know a _tell_ if you'd never seen it before?"

"Everyone lies," Arya said easily, and went on before Jon could disagree to say that father had never lied. "If someone came through that door－ someone you didn't know very well－ to say thank you, what would you say?"

"I would say they didn't need to thank me," Jon said right away.

Arya nodded, smirking. "And, if they asked you how you were faring? What would you say?"

Jon looked off a moment, considering. "I suppose I'd say I was fine. _Okay_ , maybe."

"And how are you _really_ feeling?"

Jon grimaced, but could not help the grin her cleverness brought him. "Like all _Seven Hells_ chewed me up and spat me back out again," he replied, and shared a tired laugh with her. His face fell when the laugh ran dry.

"Do you want to play?" Arya asked quickly, twitching her eyebrows when he glanced at her.

"What... the _Game of Faces?_ " Jon asked, and she nodded. Jon pursed his lips. "How do you play?"

"It's easy. You try to lie to me, and if I catch you in a lie... well, you're in no shape to play for real, but I'll know," she said.

"I don't know how to _lie_ on command..."

"I told you my story," Arya suggested with a wolfish smile, moving over from the chair to sit cross-legged on his bed, "tell me yours, just... exaggerate, here and there."

Jon sniffed a laugh and shook his head ruefully. A glance at the window showed the sun had long set, and Daenerys still had not sent for him...

"When I left Winterfell for the Wall," Jon began at last, "I was terrified... I didn't _really_ want to leave, but somehow I _knew_ it was something I had to do. Tyrion came North with us, to see the Wall. 'To piss off the edge of the world,'" Jon quoted. "Gods, I _hated_ him then, he was more irritating before..."

"Liar," Arya cut him off. "You liked him right away, even if he annoyed you."

Jon gaped a moment, slowly realizing her words for truth. "I didn't even _know_ I was lying, when I said that!" He argued.

"People lie without realizing all the time," she replied in a knowing way. "Go on..."

It went on like that for a while, and Jon told his sister the highlights of his long journey to the Wall, beyond, and back again. Now and then she would catch him in an unintended lie, and before long, he was trying to slip the smallest changes to his story... a black horse instead of brown, a young man instead of an older one, a Hornfoot instead of a Thenn... he tried and failed each time to slip something past her cool stare.

" _Alright_ ," Jon conceded, after Arya called him a liar to say he had a hard time trusting Daenerys, at first. "You win," he said. "What's my tell, then?"

"Your tell is being the _worst_ liar I've ever seen," Arya chuckled, and Jon grinned with her, but told her to be serious. "You look away," she replied. "Just a tick, to your left. Most people do. It's the most common tell."

Jon nodded, and forgot what he had been about to say when a sharp knocking came on the door. Surprised, Jon glanced at the window, and the darkness confirmed the late hour.

He stood up so fast his head swam, and ripped the door open. The one-armed woman－ one of the Dothraki _Dragonlords_ , though Jon could not recall her name－ only stared at him with an expectant look.

"I'll see you in the morning," he said hurriedly to Arya, pulling his brown fur cloak from the peg and settling it hastily about his shoulders. Jon all but threw himself towards the door, but he stopped short to realize the woman had not moved an inch, and stood like a barricade in the doorframe.

" _Khaleesi_ feel a bit better now, no thanking to _you_ ," the woman looked on him sternly, her jaw set, and her own remaining hand planted firmly on her hip.

Jon grimaced, remembering how he unburdened his grief on Daenerys at the first moment she had woken, and slammed the door when he left. He moved to apologize, but she held her hand up at him. "But _somehow_ ," the copper-skinned woman went on, " _she_ feel badly for send you away..." The woman clenched her hand to a fist, and raised one finger up. "You say _one_ thing upset her... _One_ , and I _break finger_ ," the woman vowed, and Jon nodded, frowning.

 _Khava_ , he remembered, _the Woman of Many Wives..._ Daenerys had chosen her as _Dragonlord_ for her reputation. The Woman of Many Wives was fond of _butchering_ men, who had hurt the girls that bound themselves to her...

Khava scanned him up and down, her brow furrowed. "Where is gift?" Khava demanded at last.

Jon shook his head, not understanding. " _Tokikof!_ " The woman scoffed loudly, rolling her eye. " _Come with gift_ , or I take break _two_ finger!" At that, the woman whirled and left him, gawking.

"I like her," Arya said, appreciatively, but Jon hardly heard her.

He stared after Khava for a beat, stunned, when something popped into his mind. Something his father had given him, when he was little more than a boy. Jon had outgrown it by his next name-day, and tucked it in his desk drawer, for safekeeping. But Winterfell had been sacked _twice,_ since then...

Hurriedly, Jon crossed his bedroom and wrenched open one of his desk drawers. _Gods, let it still be here,_ he begged, digging farther back, his heart set on it. He fished about, then beamed when his fingers finally found it. Dashing past Arya without a word, he did not waste the time it would take to shut the door behind him.


	34. The Great Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Trapped at Castle Cerwyn, Missandei, Tyrion, Davos, Idri, and Yara must play and win the Great Game, in order to survive._

When Missandei woke, early in the morning on their second day at Castle Cerwyn, the storm was raging just outside the stone walls of their quaint, spacious prison. She was the first among her companions, to wake; Davos, Idri, Tyrion, and Yara still slept fitfully, on the other cots. None of them had left their chambers since they first arrived, and after two full days, the stale air was heavy with fear and impatience.

Dangling her legs over the side of her cot, Missandei took a moment of quiet to pray for Grey Worm and Queen Daenerys, but her prayers were quickly interrupted by a short, distinct whistle, followed by a quiet tapping on the door. The sound of it roused the others, who all leaned up to watch, while Missandei crossed the room.

A folded sheet of parchment slid under the door, followed by the patter of hurried footsteps disappearing down the hallway. Missandei took the paper in hand and squinted at the haggard print. It was a scrawled mess, riddled with spelling errors. _There's food outside,_ it began, _get it quick and hide it when she comes._ After finally deciphering the first sentence, Missandei shoved the letter at Tyrion for him to finish.

The Common Tongue was as intricate as written languages came, and with no morning tea to ease her waking, and no food in her belly in two days, Missandei had not _half_ the patience to struggle through the rest of the scrambled print.

Pulling open the door, Missandei glanced one way down the hall, then the other, before she knelt and took the heavy-laden tray into both hands. She set it down on the small dining table in the center of the room, and Yara shut the door behind her. All eyes locked on the heaping pile of bread, cheese, and dried meats. But even as the churning of empty bellies filled the air, no one seemed eager to take the first bite.

_"Take no food or water that does not come with a song,"_ Varys had warned in his last letter to them, but it was _possible_ that Sansa had been informed about the Spider's letter, or she may have intercepted it herself...

"I live long," Idri announced in a resigned manner, "I take first."

Before the old woman could as much as stand, Ser Davos lurched forward from his cot, grabbed a hunk of bread and cheese and stuffed it in his mouth, chewing hard. "You ought to wait a few minutes," Davos mumbled, then swallowed. "If it's poisoned, it should take that long, at least."

Idri put her hands on the old smugglers shoulders and gave him a long kiss on the cheek. " _Brave_ man," she commended, patting his face gently with both of her hands. You live long already. _Luck_ with you, it is known."

Davos blushed and scoffed, inspecting his feet and mumbling about how he was only doing his duty, when Tyrion cut him off importantly.

"Missandei," Tyrion was staring at the letter in his hands. "It is a warning, for you," he said quietly.

"What does it say?" She asked curiously, staring at the food and trying not to gag at the wrenching hunger in her stomach. Davos munched bread, cheese, and dried meat happily, washed it down with whatever had come in the large flagon, and Missandei could not help her jealousy, even knowing that Davos might pitch over _dead_ at any moment.

Tyrion moved to her side and spoke quietly. "It says that Lady sansa will come to you seeking lessons in the Dothraki language. Today, most likely this morning."

_Why?_ Missandei wondered, then cast a look of wide-eyed understanding at Idri. The High Priestess had spoken too loudly yesterday, and Lady Sansa must have heard it through the door, after all. _Of course, she will want to understand what Idri said..._

"High Priestess," Missandei said in the Dothraki tongue, her words clipped and sharp, "You must know this is your doing." Idri cast an admonished look at her feet, and Missandei's face softened. "The Great Game is foreign to you," she went on softly. _How terrible and false I must seem to her... playing along to this madness,_ Missandei thought bitterly. "Will you remind me _exactly_ what you said, yesterday? _Quietly._ "

The High Priestess thought hard for a moment, then spoke with quiet confidence, in her native tongue. "' _Khaleesi_ says he is not to have any of the wine she sent with us.'"

Missandei thought long on it, tasted each word individually in her mouth. "It should be easy enough to switch every word out with one that sounds similar," she asserted, "Lady Sansa cannot learn Dothraki in a day, or even a month. She will never know the difference."

"She will," Tyrion corrected sadly. "Sansa is not trying to learn _Dothraki_ , she only seeks to understand one specific sentence. If you teach her all the wrong words, the sentence she has _undoubtedly_ committed to memory will make no sense... and if she is anything like my sister, that would cause more than enough suspicion to get us killed."

Missandei sighed, and cast her eyes back to the tray of food. Davos was sitting by the table, still eating merrily. He seemed to have forgotten the rest of them in his haste to satisfy his hunger, and he looked no worse off than he had after his first bite, better even. Yara Greyjoy had joined him, though she took small and reserved bites, watching the Onion Knight carefully all the while. Missandei walked slowly towards the large flagon on the tray, and put her hand on it. It was _warm_...

_A few minutes,_ Davos had advised, and Missandeis' mouth tightened. _He looks well enough..._ Her stomach screamed for haste, as the rich scent of cheese and sweetbread overwhelmed her.

_Valar morghulis,_ Missandei decided. She poured from the flagon and could have danced to find that it was full of hot, dark tea. Pouring herself a large cup, Missandei wrapped her hands round it, sank down on her cot, and sighed at the comfort it brought to her.

"The sentence has to mean something," Tyrion mumbled, half to himself. "Or Sansa will know we have been lying to her..."

" _Gods_ , but I've had more than enough of lies, and the _Great Game,_ " Davos mumbled to himself, then addressed the others with a matching impatience. "What sort of information are we keen to feed her?"

Over the edge of her cup, Missandei watched a pleasant realization bloom on Tyrion's face. "I believe Lady Missandei has already thought of that," Tyrion said, and gave her an approving look, which she returned with a quizzical one. " _...Idri and I were offering silent prayer to the Great Stallion,_ " Tyrion quoted her words with pride.

Missandei blushed, cast her eyes down humbly away from Tyrion's approving smile, and took another long sip of tea.

"That was terribly clever, Lady Missandei," Tyrion went on seriously. "Lady Sansa will know next to nothing of the Dothraki ways. The very idea of _silent_ prayer among the Dothraki..." Tyrion stopped when Idri scoffed, shaking her head. The old Dothraki Priestess had sat herself next to Davos, and spoke through a mouthful of bread, gesturing with the hunk she still held in her hand.

"How ancestors to hear," Idri demanded, "if we pray _silent_?" The question was not meant for any one of them, but it brought a fond smile to Missandei.

Staring down into the dark liquid of her tea, Missandei looked long on her reflection, and ran her finger over the smooth edge of the pewter cup.

She knew that Tyrion was right; they could not afford to underestimate Sansa, no more than they could afford Sansa to learn the truth of what was said. If Sansa discovered even a scrap of doubt, thought for a _moment_ that Tyrion's drunken ruse the night before had been insincere... _then the Game is lost, and we die._

That false drunkenness was the first lie upon which their entire Game was built. It was far past too late to wonder what else they could have done.

"Say it again, High Priestess, quietly," Missandei commanded absently, still thumbing her cup. She took breath, and a long sip while she listened.

" _Khaleesi_ says he is not to have any of the wine she sent with us," Idri said slowly. Missandei repeated the sentence to herself, twice or a dozen times, she did not know.

The Dothraki tongue was harsh and guttural, as difficult to understand as it was to pronounce. To the unpracticed ear, the language sounded a harsh jumble, but aa language went, the words, grammar, and sentence structure of Dothraki were actually quite elegant, simple even. The Common Tongue, by contrast, bore perhaps three or four times as many words _and_ tenses as Dothraki. The great structural differences was but one of many troubles of translating between the two languages.

_The beginning,_ Missandei decided, _and the verbs. Those must stay the same_. The beginning of Idri's sentence would sound the most familiar to Sansa, while the rest would likely be remembered far less accurately. In every language Missandei had ever learned, it was easier to start a sentence than it was to finish one. The verbs, too, were among the first things one must grasp when learning Dothraki. The rest of it－ tense, grammar, syntax, vocabulary, among other things－ was, conveniently, quite malleable between the two languages.

"Khaleesi says... He is not to have..." Missandei struggled. _He_ could easily be taken by Sansa to mean the Great Stallion, or anyone else for that matter, but Missandei could not think of a Dothraki noun similar enough to _virzetha_ _－_ red wine－ to communicate another idea. _Virzethat,_ Missandei thought, _meaning 'to be red'..._ Missandei shook her head.

" _Virsa_ ," Idri suggested, and Missandei cast her a gladdened look. The word was not a noun, and certainly not pronounced quite as Idri had put it forth, but it meant "to have been burnt," and with that, Missandei had little difficulty deciding on the rest of her misleading, and rather inaccurate translation.

"Khaleesi says, He is not to have been burnt, with the rest. She sends us here with hope." Missandei said it first in Dothraki, then repeated the sentence in the Common Tongue and grimaced, shaking her head at the clumsy grammar. Idri repeated her Dothraki translation thoughtfully. Suddenly, she leaned forward and clapped her hands together once, loudly, with a great grin on her face.

"Is _perfect_ ," Idri commended, and bit her tongue when she realized how loudly she said it. "You pronounce the changed words _just so_ ," Idri said more quietly, in her native tongue. "And even to me, it sounds near the same. No forgetting the door that she listened through. The girl will not hear the different, not without years to study."

"Indeed," Tyrion decreed, more quietly, though Missandei knew he scarcely understood most of what Idri had said. "It sounds remarkably similar, and the translation itself is rather ominous, especially when considering how Lady Sansa fears Queen Daenerys, and her dragons. I think it could do us some good, to have Lady Sansa do a bit of _overthinking_ , on the translation... High Priestess," Tyrion added, a bit hesitantly, "I... would suggest you speak quietly from now on, and only in your native tongue," his voice took on an apologetic tone, "and, perhaps you may want to engage in some _silent_ prayer, when Lady Sansa arrives..."

Idri nodded gratefully, waving her hand dismissively. "The Great Stallion will not hear silent prayer through stone walls," the Priestess said knowingly, responding to Tyrion in Dothraki, despite his lack of understanding. "But, I think perhaps, the Stallion is not the God who listens, in this land." With that, Idri rose from her chair and sat herself crossed-legged before the hearth. She grimaced when her buttocks met the cold stone floor.

Ser Davos rose from his chair suddenly, stripped the blanket from his own bed, and folded it. "Here," Davos gruffed, setting the blanket down just beside where Idri had set herself, and offered her a hand. With a mischievous grin, Idri took her hand and re-positioned herself, cross-legged on the cushion, then cast a glance at Missandei.

"You are _sure_ he is already married?" Idri asked.

" _Sek_ ," Missandei chuckled. "I am quite sure. As are _you,_ " Missandei reminded her. "Your sun-and-stars awaits your return to Winterfell."

"My sun-and-stars has more _wives_ than _fingers_ ," Idri replied. The two shared a chuckle, while the others looked on curiously, not understanding a word.

The room fell to a nervous quiet, and Missandei reminded herself that there was little time to jest. The whipping wind outside the castle walls offered the only sound to the silence.

_"Khaleesi says, He is not to have been burnt, with the rest. She sends us here with hope..."_ Missandei repeated the thought again, and again. The more she heard it, the more the words sounded a prayer to her, and it was not long before it became one in earnest. With her eyes shut to all else, Missandei whispered the words, memorized them.

Dark eyes snapped open when a gentle knock came at the door. Everyone moved at once, and quietly. Tyrion moved to the cots, snatching Missandei's wine skin from the table as he passed by. He lay himself down, tucked the skin in the crook of his arm, turned his face to the wall, and at once feigned a heavy sleep. Ser Davos quickly took up the tray of food and tucked it well under one of the cots, out of sight, then sat himself down by the hearth with a book. With a scowl, Yara－ who was in such a mood that she had not even _spoken_ since yesterday－ moved stiffly to her cot, lay herself down, and pressed a pillow over her head.

Missandei moved last of all, when the others were situated, moving swiftly to the door and pulling it open.

"Lady Sansa," she greeted quietly, and let the door fall open when she was certain Sansa was alone. Lady Stark bore a silver tray in her hands, piled high with dried fruits and fresh meats. Missandei gestured her in with a timid smile.

"I brought you something to eat." Sansa stepped politely around Missandei and set the tray on the empty table. "I was worried that Lord Cerwyn's servants wouldn't feed you."

"Thank you, my Lady," Missandei replied, and looked gratefully on the food, masking her terror for gratitude. _How_ was she ever to avoid eating it? If Sansa thought she had not eaten in two daya, then she ought to be ravenous by now. Ser Davos met her eye for a beat, and stepped forward.

"Many thanks, my Lady," Davos said, snatching a piece of ham and raising it high, as if in a toast. Grinning, he popped the ham into his mouth, chewed and swallowed while he poured himself a cup of water. " _Mm_ ," Davos washed the first bite down with a swig of water, then went for the dried apples. Missandei's heart pounded, and she forced back tears. Most poisons worked in minutes, but some took _hours_ to settle in...

"Thank you," Missandei said as gratefully as she could. "I'm sure the others will be grateful, when they wake. For myself, and High Priestess Idri however... I'm afraid it may sound strange to you, but it is known that the Great Stallion _favors_ those who fast, until the sun is highest in the sky," Missandei glanced at the food longingly, then shook her head, sighing. "With my Queen and my love both fighting in the Great War, I do not think _now_ is the time to offend the Gods."

"Of course," Sansa said understandingly. A slight, awkward pause followed.

***

The strangeness of the horsemasters' religion would not stop surprising her. It did not surprise Sansa to see, however, that Ser Davos was the first to trust the meal that she had brought.

Thinking suspiciously, the "daily fast," that Missandei spoke of could simply be a chance to wait and see if Ser Davos succumbed to poison, and Sansa smiled widely for her own cleverness. She had considered poisoning, of course, and had a large vial of 'The Long Farewell," stashed away for when the time came, but for now she needed their trust. At least until she had deciphered what the Priestess had said yesterday. And, of course, when they discovered that Sansa had not poisoned the first meal, or the second, there would be no reason for them not to trust the third, or fourth...

"Lady Sansa," Missandei began hesitantly, "is there any word on who may have killed Lord Varys?"

"Nothing definite, yet, but I am told that three men were reported missing for guard duty around the time of Varys' murder. They are being questioned as we speak."

Missandei nodded, and cast her eyes down. _A submissive thing,_ Sansa thought disdainfully. The way the woman nodded, bowed, and cowered from eye contact reminded her of her younger, stupider self.

"Lady Sansa," Missandei began hesitantly, and raised her eyes at last. "I wanted to apologize... the people of Westeros are quite _different_ than I am used, and I believe I may have mistaken your anxiety for insult."

Sansa could have laughed, but constrained herself to an agreeable smile. She cast her eyes down a moment, trying to mimic the Eastern Lady as much as she could, in her mannerisms. _"People like you more, if they think you're just like them,"_ Balish had taught her. _"The more they like you, the better they trust you. And the easier it becomes, to get them to do what you need them to do..."_

"You... really don't have to apologize," Sansa said timidly. "I admit I was nervous, to say the _least_ , when Queen Daenerys and her dragons first arrived to Winterfell..."

"Understandably so," Davos chimed in around a mouthful of food.

"Yes," Missandei agreed with a nod at Davos that looked apologetic. "It seems we have misjudged one another, my Lady, and... I was hoping we might start over."

Sansa nodded gratefully, and cast her eyes down, trying to seem as though she did not know how to move the conversation forward. The sweet, simple Missandei put nothing useful forth in the quiet pause, so Sansa glanced absently at the High Priestess, who was praying silently by the hearth. Looking at her a moment, Sansa feigned a look of realization.

"I wonder..." Sansa began, glancing back at Missandei. "I... was never a very good student, and I have no real talent for languages," Sansa admitted honestly, "but I have heard you are quite an accomplished teacher," she hedged, hoping to draw the offer out, but Missandei only looked at her with a furrowed brow. _Stupid girl,_ Sansa thought irritably, though she kept her annoyance from her voice. "Do you think it might help the Riders and the North get on together, if _I_ were to learn a bit of Dothraki?"

"Of course," Missandei replied, sounding as pleasantly surprised as Sansa had expected. "Though, If I may... perhaps you may want to start with High Valyrian? I am sure it would impress Queen Daenerys greatly, and Valyrian comes far more naturally to the tongue, compared to Dothraki."

"No," Sansa insisted a bit too quickly, and remembered herself. It had been difficult to even let Missandei finish the thought, without snapping the word. Sansa turned her eyes down, took a short breath, and tried to look abashed. "I... ought to start with Dothraki. I feel ashamed to say it, but I thought very little of them, at first. I know that many of the Riders caught me looking... _glaring_ ," she admitted, "at the Queen's feast. I'd like to make amends, in their native tongue, when we return to Winterfell."

Surprise bloomed again on Missandei's face at her admission. _Good,_ Sansa thought smugly. The less Missandei could predict her actions－ and, far more importantly, her _motivations_ － the safer Sansa was.

"I have heard the truth, then... about the honor of the Starks," Missandei said kindly, then glanced meaningfully at the small dining table.

Ser Davos－ still seated there－ hastily swallowed a bite, wiped his mouth, then shuffled the tray of food to one of the smaller end tables. He pulled a chair aside, sat himself down by the hearth with a large book, stifled a burp, and steadfastly ignored the two women.

Smiling, Missandei pulled a chair out, and gestured warmly for Sansa to take a seat at the larger table. "Shall we begin?"


	35. Those We've Lost (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jon returns to Daenerys with a gift. Arya shares an unpleasant truth with Daenerys and Jon. Gendry makes a promise._

By the time Jon reached Daenerys' chambers, Khava was waiting for him, standing rigidly beside the two ever-silent Unsullied door guards. Jon kept his eyes low as he strode down the hall, trying to understand why the woman seemed so _angry_ with him, when all he had ever done was try to protect Daenerys...

"Gift?" Khava asked bluntly when he reached the door. Huffing, Jon thrust his hands under his cloak. When he showed her, the woman's eyebrows shot up, as if impressed. "Copper is good for healing," Khava admitted, and Jon smiled smugly, stuffing the item back in his pocket.

"Might I be permitted," Jon grumbled, "to see my _wife,_ now?" Instantly, he regretted his tone.

Khava's eyes burned and she took a step forward, seizing Jon by the front of his garb. Not a beat later, Jon grunted, smacking against the wall. The woman had only one arm, pressed hard over his throat, but she moved quicker than a viper, and looked even deadlier, hissing in his face.

"You know _nothing_ of a woman's pain... I swear you now, _King Jon_ ," Khava sneered the phrase. "You betray her,Iwill make you wish that _Khaleesi_ burn you instead."

"I would never betray her," Jon growled, shoving the woman back. "And I would swear the same to _you_ , and to anyone else who would ever try to hurt the woman I love!"

"Good," Khava grinned suddenly. Sniffing, the woman stepped aside, and gestured him to the door. Gaping a beat longer, Jon nodded and stepped around her. "Do not upset her," Khava hissed the reminder as he passed by.

***

The quiet had become nauseating, while Daenerys waited for Khava to fetch Jon from wherever he had gone. She would have preferred to send Yathi, but the woman's husband, Tvarro, had requested her aid in the Great Hall, where the healers were still working tirelessly to save those who remained.

Before the Dragonlord had left, Yathi had dressed Daenerys in loose, pale silks and braided her hair into a long, comfortable rope over one shoulder, but the Queen felt far from comfortable, staring at the stone ceiling. The same two-hundred-twelve stones that had squatted over her for _hours_.

Alone with her thoughts, they tore at her mind. Thoughts of the lives lost, how many there must be. And the death that was most near and certain to her...

Another son dead before he ever lived... another _corpse_ pulled from between her legs... Would he have been born as monstrous as the last? With skin like a lizard, wings like a bat... had the flesh fallen off her son's bones, as the Maester pulled him from her womb?

When the door opened, a breath she did not realize was in her rushed out. Wiping her eyes, she watched Jon stepped through quietly. He set the door closed, gently, then turned and moved quickly to her side.

Taking her hand, Jon sank down on the bed beside her, careful not to put his weight too near. The dark warmth of his eyes gleamed with everything she felt, love and joy, pain and grief...

"I hope Khava wasn't too harsh with you," Daenerys said softly.

Jon laughed in a breathy way, and shook his head a bit. "I still have all my fingers," Jon promised. "I... brought you something." He said it as if he had only just remembered.

His hand returned from his cloak clutching a copper armband, intricately etched with rounded, swirling geometry, and in the very center, a wolf's head. Not the Direwolf sigil of House Stark, but the _true_ image of a wolf, etched into the copper; the full moon gleamed in polished silver behind it. The wolf stared calmly out, with two onyx eyes narrowed in warning.

Daenerys brushed her thumb over the copper, enjoying how the rough texture of the etched metal fur ran suddenly into to the soft, silver moon.

"I should have shined it up, before I brought it," Jon admitted, but Daenerys was already shaking her head, a delighted smile on her face.

"I love it," she giggled thickly, passed it back to him, and raised her right arm. With a gladdened look, Jon fixed the armband high on her arm, curled the soft metal gently so that it held fast, resting on the bulk of her muscle. He smiled proudly when he was done, then turned that smile to her face. "I love _you_..." Daenerys choked out, pressing her forehead to his. A horrible knot twisted at her waist at the motion.

Her face shattered, and her next breath came as a gasp. "I'm _sorry_ ," Daenerys whispered, and Jon put both his hands on her face, turned it up.

" _No_ ," Jon growled, and a tear slid down his cheek. Jon brought her left hand to his lips and kissed it roughly. "No..." he said, more softly, "you are the light of my life, Nera. That has not changed." Jon shook his head. "That will _never_ change." Jon put her hand to his chest and sighed, shuddering.

_They don't hurt, when I'm with you,_ Jon had told her that once, speaking of the wounds in his chest, forever unhealed beneath leather, fur, and armor.

Daenerys tugged gently on his hand and pulled him down to lay beside her. They lay quietly until their breaths came slow and steadily. Jon hummed softly, an unfamiliar, comforting tune, and stroked her hair gently.

While her body lay motionless with him, her mind would not stop pacing. Each time she thought of the child she lost, it _ached_ , but a part of her－ of the woman who had survived a lifetime of hardship by her first flowering－ was already near to accepting of what had happened...

Long ago, Daenerys had become resigned to the idea that she would never have children of her own. She already _had_ children, after all, and the dragons were the most remarkable children that anyone would ever have. Besides her dragons, Queen Daenerys had her people. When the Yunkish Freedmen cried out " _Mhysa!"_ they healed a wound that Daenerys had been certain would smart forever. In all her angst for the Great War, the Queen had not even realized she missed her monthly blood, _twice_.

The child had not been a part of her life until lost, and this was far from the first terrible loss that Daenerys had known.

_My mother, Rhaegar,_ they had died before she was born... _Viserys,_ first as children, when the last of his joy was lost, and then again, when Drogon had given him the only crown that Viserys ever deserved... Drogo's child, and then the man himself. _Irri, Jhiqui, Barristan..._ and more besides. More faces than Daenerys could name flashed through her mind, faces lost to her forever, no matter what joy or terror they had brought, before the end.

Daenerys took a sharp breath, and sat herself up, wincing at the ache it brought; she wanted to throw her legs over the bed and walk. Sitting still had never come naturally to her, unless deep in thought... and right now, that was the last place she wanted to be. Despite the comfort Daenerys took in Jon's embrace, the stone walls above and around her felt more like a cage than a place of rest. She longed for the sky beyond her ceiling, but shut her eyes at the thought of what would be waiting for her, outside. Bodies beyond counting...

"Our people," Daenerys murmured, and Jon raised himself up on his elbow to look sadly on her face. "How many of us survived?"

He hesitated a while, before he answered. "Almost thirty-thousand." _Almost?_ Daenerys thought, horrified. _Not even a third, left alive..._ Jon was watching her face, and tilted her chin up to say, very seriously, "It would have been _none_ , Nera. It's not just thirty-thousand people we saved, it's _all of them_."

"I know," Daenerys agreed quickly, and Jon fell quiet. He took her hand again and brushed his thumb gently over it. His eyes offered apology, and deep understanding.

They had expected heavy losses, planned for them, and taken every effort in the time they had to avoid them... but the eventuality of tens of thousands _dead_ at their command paled to the reality of it. _Seventy thousand,_ she thought. _How many orphans will seventy thousand deaths make?_

"And, those we've lost?" Daenerys asked. It had been near to two days since the Great War was won. "Tell me I have not missed their burning..."

"You haven't," Jon assured her. "Grey Worm... and... _Jaime_ ," Jon added with some surprise, "they only just finished gathering them together. We light the pyres at first light."

Daenerys nodded, and found herself feeling better, despite everything. She had thought it would hurt more, facing what they had lost. And though returning to her Queenly duties was far from painless, the distraction of it _helped_ more than it hurt. Daenerys felt fuller, more satisfied, to wonder no longer on the dead, but to think of what could yet be done for those who remained.

"Is there any word from Castle Cerwyn?" Daenerys asked.

"Not yet," Jon replied, and she did not like the hesitance in his voice. "I expected to hear from them first, but I'll send a raven South, in the morning," he promised, and sighed. "I expect I will be sending quite a _few_."

Daenerys squeezed his hand, and smiled tiredly. The responsibility of rule left little time for tender embraces, especially in the worst of times. More than that, she knew how much Jon resented sitting still long enough to write a letter, and he was near as bad at spelling as he was with a lie.

"I can help to write, at least," Daenerys offered, pushing herself slowly into a proper sitting position.

"You should sleep," Jon argued, though he helped her sit up all the same. "Save your strength for tomorrow." Daenerys waved his words off impatiently with one hand.

"My strength has not failed me yet, darling," Daenerys reminded him. Jon chucked, shaking his head and smiling at her with all the warmth of summer sun.

***

"Your strength has not failed _anyone_ yet," Jon said in reply, and wondered why she looked away, at that. Jon kissed her hand as he stood up. "I'll get you a writing desk, so you can stay still. We had it made for Bran... but I don't expect he uses it much anymore. His room is close by. I won't be a minute."

Jon pulled open the door to see Arya, not a pace away, staring at him with her arms folded behind her back, smiling dryly.

"What are you doing here?" Jon demanded, glancing around at the empty hallway. "And where are the guards?"

"I was eavesdropping," Arya replied shamelessly. "As for the guards, Queen Daenerys had that woman dismiss them to rest, after you came. I need to talk to her."

"Jon?" Daenerys' voice called from behind him.

"It's Arya," Jon assured over his shoulder. "I'll tell her to come back in the morning," Jon said stiffly, more to his sister than Daenerys.

"No," the Queen replied, and Jon turned around in surprise. Daenerys sat fully upright, leaning comfortably against the large pillows. "Send her in."

Jon turned back to Arya, who smiled smugly, but he did not crack the door an inch wider as he turned back to Daenerys. "Are you sure?" Jon asked, and Daenerys nodded. Still, he hesitated. "She asks a lotof _questions_ ," Jon warned in a low voice.

His eyes widened to realize Arya had slipped past him without a sound. "I'm not here to ask questions," Arya informed him, then turned to face the Queen.

Jon raised his brow when he watched Arya bite her lip. The girl had done it _constantly_ as a child－ a nervous habit－ but Jon had not seen her do it once since they had reunited. He knew, because he had _looked_ for it, and lamented that she seemed to have grown out of the habit.

"Lady Stark," Daenerys greeted her politely after a pause. "I'm happy to see you're looking well, though I can't say I'm surprised."

"I'm not a Lady," Arya corrected in her usual manner, "but... thank you."

Jon watched Arya bite her lip again, and grinned widely to realize why Arya had come. "You know," Jon suggested innocently, "if you're _nervous_ , you could always come back later..."

"Shut up," Arya snapped, cuffing him on the shoulder, then turned back to the Queen. "I came here to apologize."

"You mean for threatening me, at the feast?" Daenerys asked plainly.

"You _threatened_ her?" Jon demanded, and Arya turned an innocent look on him.

"Only a little," Arya said. Scoffing, Jon looked to Daenerys, who pursed her lips and nodded with a slight shrug. "I've been watching you too," Arya added, and turned back to Daenerys.

_Watching her,_ Jon thought, _the way she watches people she means to kill?_ "You mean," Jon clarified, "you've been _watching_ her, since we got here?"

"Since White Harbor, actually," Arya corrected easily.

" _White Harbor?_ " Daenerys asked, impressed. "Why?"

"Before you came North, Jon told me I had to trust you. I needed to know why I should," Arya replied. The pause that followed was long－ and for himself－ confusing, and uncomfortable. He could not understand why his little sister and his wife would not stop _smirking_ at each other, as if there was some secret between them that he was not privy to.

"And?" Daenerys asked finally.

"Like I said," Arya said evasively, "I came to apologize... I'm sorry I didn't trust you sooner. And I'm sorry I considered killing you, before."

Jon shook his head, reeling. The girl apologized for thoughts of _murder_ and _treason_ like she had stepped on Daenerys' ankle by mistake... His mouth closed when Arya turned to him next. "And I'm sorry I didn't trust _you_ at your word," she added, more seriously, before turning back to the Queen.

Daenerys was smiling widely, and shied away for a moment, running her hands over the fur bedspread. "Thank you," Daenerys said finally, clasping her hands together and looking up. "But I would not have you apologize, for protecting him."

"I always will," Arya said in a low voice. "You should know... if you ever betray my brother, I'll cut your throat."

"If _you_ ever betray my _husband_ ," Daenerys replied, smiling through a voice as soft as silk, "I'll burn you alive."

"Good," Arya replied with a grin. Jon only gaped at the two of them, but they smiled at each other as if he were not even there. "There's something else..." Arya said, and her grin vanished. "There were two men after you. They had orders to kill you and Jon both, but I took the liberty of making sure they didn't have a chance."

"Just two?" Daenerys asked coyly.

"Cersei sent one of them," Arya said, then turned to Jon. "And I think Sansa sent the other."

"That's not funny, Arya," Jon growled. Arya did not as much as blink, and Jon took a step back from her the dark intensity of her gaze. The look _demanded_ that Jon believe her, but how was he ever to believe such a horrible thing? Jon only stared, his brow furrowed, and Arya turned back to Daenerys.

"My sister is going to betray you. She probably already has, somehow."

"She will _not_ betray us!" Jon insisted, taking a step closer. Arya turned her wide eyes back on him, still as stone. She looked at him like a feral animal, with frenzied eyes that _dared_ him to take a step closer. "Arya," Jon begged, "I know you never got on with Sansa, believe me, I _know_... But this is madness!"

"I have proof, Jon," Arya slipped a scroll from her brown linen sleeve, unrolled it, and showed it to him. "I found it in my room this morning." Arya informed them it was Varys who sent it, and read the letter aloud.

_My Queen,_

_If you are reading this, I am already dead. If that is the case, I should take time now to pray this letter finds you alive and well. I have no doubt you will succeed in the Great War, but I'm afraid your fight is far from over. Our reception at Castle Cerwyn was troubling, and I fear the worst. Lady Sansa, by all accounts, is not to be trusted. My Little Birds tell me that for weeks, they have been intercepting letters from Lady Sansa to Lord Cley, letters signed by 'Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Queen in the North."_

_Jon Snow will find great difficulty in believing this, I'm sure, but... if it is not too much to ask, for my dying wish, I would implore your trust. Make no mistake, Sansa Stark is as dangerous as Cersei, and as clever as Balish, but like both of her former masters, Sansa overestimates herself._

_I had hoped to serve you long enough to see you on the Iron Throne. I would wish you luck, but a woman of your nature has no need of it._

_Yours, now and always,_

_Varys._

"That proves nothing!" Jon asserted when the letter was finished. Neither of them replied, so he went on, near to shouting at Arya. "It only proves that Varys is as suspicious and manipulative as he _always_ has been!"

"Jon," Arya said calmly, "I'm leaving for Castle Cerwyn tomorrow morning. After you burn the dead, you should follow me. Even if you're _right_ ," the way she said the word made it sound impossible, "we still have to assume that Cley is the same angry little shit that he always was."

Jon had been about to argue that there was no _need_ to go to Castle Cerwyn tomorrow morning, but what she said stopped him short, and Jon swallowed his argument. It sat in his stomach, hot and bitter.

He refused to believe Sansa would betray their family－ until Jon saw the proof of it with his own eyes, he would _refuse_ it－ but Cley Cerwyn was a man known among the North for his inflamed sense of entitlement, and fits of violence...

_Father never liked him,_ Jon remembered the way Ned Stark used to warn him against boys like Cley Cerwyn... Little boys who threw screaming tantrums, whenever they were told 'no' by anyone; boys who would laugh, and strike again, after someone yielded in the sparring circle; boys who would push their little sister into the mud, for getting smart...

"I will go with you," Jon decided, nodding gravely to Arya. "After we burn the dead."

"Good," Arya said sternly. "Then I'll leave you alone. I'm... sorry, Daenerys."

Jon turned to look at his Queen, and his brow furrowed. The Queen was staring at her hands, spread palms-up on her lap; her eyes looked as empty as Jon had ever seen them. When Arya said her name, Daenerys looked up, then nodded absently, as if lost in thought.

"May I speak to you alone?" Jon growled, and followed Arya out the door, after assuring Daenerys he would not go far. "Arya," Jon began sternly, but she whirled on him.

"You _are_ too much like father," she accused, spitting it as if this were some argument they had been having. Arya went on, before Jon could ask what in the _Seven Hells_ she meant by _that_. "You won't see what's right in front of you. Not until it's too late, because you don't _want_ to see it."

"There is _nothing_ in front of me to _prove_ _－_ " Jon began furiously.

" _Liar_ ," Arya hissed. "You can't lie to me Jon," she spoke the words as a warning, "even if you can lie to yourself. You _know_ what Sansa is capable of. How many men died, at the Battle of the Bastards, because Sansa didn't send for help from the Eyrie sooner?"

_Thousands_ , Jon thought in reply, but he bit his tongue. " _Liar_ ," Arya growled, and went on, "Rickon _died_ because Sansa didn't trust you enough to tell you the truth. Sansa's smart enough to have known that Ramsey would kill Rickon to provoke you, but still, she did _nothing_. Don't make the same mistake again, Jon... Please. You _have_ to trust me."

Jon deflated. He had wondered countless times why Sansa had not simply told him the truth about Littlefinger, about the aid they could have had from the Vale. Each time, Jon had convinced himself that Sansa was terrified of Petyr Balish... but whenever Jon had seen Sansa speaking to the man at Winterfell, she hardly seemed _frightened_. Suspicious, and cold, yes, but never afraid. If Sansa had sent for the soldiers from the Eyrie before the Battle of the Bastards had begun... _Why didn't she?_ Jon wondered again, in a new way. _She knew how badly we needed the men. She knew that Littlefinger would come, if she asked..._ _she knew I would die to keep her safe..._

"Are you sure about this?" Jon asked.

Arya nodded sadly. "I wish I wasn't," she added.

Jon sighed. "What will you do, tomorrow, when you get there?"

"I don't know yet," Arya admitted. "But I know that your Queen needs you," she said, changing the subject and gesturing to the door behind him. By the time Jon turned back around again, Arya was halfway down the hall, and she did not look back.

***

When the door opened, Gendry opened his eyes and fought through the fog that the milk-of-the-poppy had left in him. Arya sat herself down at the foot of the bed, cross-legged.

"What time is it?" Gendry mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"Late," Arya replied. "You've been asleep for a while." Arya scooted to one side of him and pulled his furs away, revealing a clean white bandage around his waist. She smiled. "How are you feeling?"

Gendry opened his hand, resting weakly on the bed, and Arya took it. He pulled her close, snugged an arm around her, nestled her tiny frame against his, and sighed his answer.

"Never better, my Lady..."

He must have dozed off, and when he woke his skin was cool and wet, and Arya was wringing a cloth out into a large bowl of water.

"Did you... wash me?" Gendry asked. His bandages were dry, but his smallclothes had been stripped away, and the tender skin beneath was as cool and moist as the rest of him.

"You smelled awful," Arya replied, hanging the cloth to dry. "Good morning," she added. She was fully dressed, in plain brown furs, with her sword belt fixed about her waist.

"Seven Hells, I slept through the night?"

"There wasn't much left of it," Arya said, crossing the room to sit with one leg tucked underneath her, on the bed. The other leg dangled, along with her sword, while Arya looked quietly at him. Fully dressed or not, Gendry grinned at the way her hair was mashed up on one side of her head, and knew that she must have only woken recently.

"Can you promise me something?" Arya asked him seriously, and at once, Gendry did not like the look she wore. In the time he had known her, Gendry had seen her angry, suspicious, glum, smug, self-righteous and spirited, but _never_ had he seen her look so... terribly sad. Furrowing his brow, he nodded.

"I have to go somewhere today," Arya said, "and I need you to promise me, that when I come back, you'll never ask me where I went, or what I did. Not ever."

Those very askings formed on his tongue, but looking at her face, Gendry swallowed his questions and nodded. "When do you leave?" He asked instead.

"Now," Arya said. "I meant to be gone before you woke, but－"

"But I _lulled_ milady to sleep," Gendry sighed smugly, stretching his arms up and over his head. Despite the ache in his wounds, it felt good to move. Almost as good at it felt when she only smiled at him and shrugged a reply. "You know," Gendry said, "usually when a Lady asks a favor, she gives one in return..." The point of her dagger was an inch over his throat before he could finish.

"I'm not a Lady," Arya reminded him darkly, and Gendry laughed so hard it hurt his wounds and set him groaning. Arya chuckled with him, pulling her dagger away as she leaned in eagerly. After the long, soft embrace, their lips parted, and his eyes opened only in time to watch the wolf-girl slip through the door.


	36. Those We've Lost (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Daenerys and Jon burn their dead. The dragons pay respects to the wolves. Arya loses the Game of Faces._

Daenerys took a breath, and a pause, just inside the entryway of Castle Winterfell. The Queen was dressed in a plain charcoal gown, trimmed with silver fur that only peeked out at the neckline and cuffs. Off the silver dragon chain hung a scaled cloth of palest blue. Jon was in his finest wear as well, and he paused at her side. Grey Worm stood before the door, waiting; his brown skin a ruin of bruises, both of his lips split at the edges.

Jon had warned her what to expect, outside, and she saw the warning again in his eyes, as he offered his hand. Daenerys looked at him curiously. They had decided to announce their marriage at the feast, tonight. Certainly not this morning. A mass funeral was no place to announce a marriage...

"Am I not your King?" Jon said seriously, gesturing with his hand, and she ducked her eyes, fighting back a smile. 

"Let them rumor of it today," Jon said, more softly, brushing his hand over the copper armband, wrapped just below her shoulder. He had insisted she wear it, and after the letters had been writ, and all ravens sent, he had polished the gift to gleaming. The fretwork auburn fur of the wolfshead shimmered, proudly offset by the brilliant, silver moon. "And tonight," Jon went on, smiling nervously, "we will tell them the truth."

She took a deep breath, and gingerly slipped her arm through his. With a glance at Grey Worm, she shared with the Unsullied Captain the makings of a smile. Daenerys nodded her command.

Grey Worm pulled the door open at once, and together, she and Jon stepped into the balmy wind. It was brighter than she expected, and when her eyes adjusted, the first she saw was a creamy red sky to her left, fading to lightest blue far to her right.

A glance down, and all that color was lost to grey, haggard faces and the dark stain of old blood in the wet, melting snow.

Everything she laid eyes on was destroyed, or near to it, barrels and wagons, stairs and scaffolds all ravaged, laying in broken pieces and endless splinters along the ground. The stain of old blood was everywhere. The foul color ran in thick rivulets along the Castle walls, pouring in two straight lines out the South Gate.

Her arm tightened around Jon's as they took their first step forward.

At first, Daenerys tried to focus not on the ruin of battle, and she did her best ignore the dripping of meltwater, mixed up with more blood than had been spilt in an age... Instead, Daenerys focused on the people, and tried to meet each one of their gazes with whatever comfort her face could manage. Before long, though, their brows furrowed in anguish over empty eyes, their ruinous faces forced her gaze to the ground.

Remembering herself, Daenerys turned her eyes forward, and the rest of the walk passed more quickly.

When they stepped through the South Gate, the crowd followed behind at first. As the dark pyramids of the dead came into view, the people streamed past in groups, towards where their own lay. The dark altars were organized into a rough formation of concentric circles, spiraling towards the center, where their closest allies would be found...

Coming closer to the first of the dead, Daenerys saw half-frozen bodies stacked neatly among roughly hewn wood. Faces paled to blue in the chill; wood and corpses alike wet with lamp oil, gleaming in the early morning light.

In passing, Daenerys recognized Jaime among the living. He gazed with empty eyes at the lifeless, once young and sprightly squire, who had been stuck to Ser Brienne's side since Daenerys had arrived to Winterfell. _He seemed a kind man..._ Daenerys might have had him Knighted, if the squire had lived... yet even as she tried, she could not remember his name...

Guilt pulled at her lips, and Daenerys turned her eyes forward, trying in vain to swallow the stone in her throat.

The somber cries of her children peeled from the Southeast, and before long Daenerys saw two dragons soar from the ground there, flying low and landing quickly in the center of the spiraling pyramids of the dead.

_Rhaegal_... she realized then, that she had expected to find him amongst the slain. As she had done her best not to look at Viserion's broken corpse, still half-slung over the South Wall... 

The grief for Rhaegal had been in her as well, lumped in with all the rest, until she remembered that her child had been brought back to life, just before the Long Night was done. After they landed, the dragons raised their heads high and watched her. The stain of red had turned to charcoal grey, cut through with winding black meltwater, and Daenerys walked on.

Even knowing Rhaegal was waiting for her, and Drogon, she longed to turn back. There was something else lurking, ahead, a grief she could not name. Daenerys could feel it, like a dark beacon calling her forward, tempting her to recall the unspeakable truth, what her mind had sheltered her from.

Before the last the great pyres passed by, Drogon had crowded himself low to the ground, and crooned softly when she approached. Finally, Drogon moved his head aside, and showed her. The small pyre, centermost of them all, had been built not for three-dozen men, but one alone. Ser Jorah was covered from the waist down by the banner of House Mormont, his breastplate emblazoned with the red dragon of her House. The pallor of death was on him, his lips fixed and blue, and ice crusted on his pale hair and dark lashes.

_No more farewells_ , they had agreed. Staggering the last step, Daenerys put her hand on his arm and knelt, though she had not meant to. A stifled choke came from her throat, and she bent her face down to hide the flood of tears.

***

Jon watched Daenerys kneel, and nearly went to step towards her, but Rhaegal hissed a soft warning, before turning－ as Drogon－ to the pyre which bore Ser Jorah. The dragons all but closed her off from sight, and though Jon could still see her, he turned.

Instead, Jon faced the few thousand who had not been too maimed to come. Grey Worm was waiting on the edge of the crowd, holding a torch in one hand, and a broken bow in the other; he stepped forward when Jon caught his eye, and offered the bow first. 

Jon took it and ran his bare thumb over the familiar wood, feeling for the inscription he knew to be there. _Theon Greyjoy._

Jon had been there, the day Theon had etched his name upon the bow. As had Robb, and Bran; Ned had given all his boys new bows this past spring, and taken them hunting... The Bastard and the Greyjoy ward, along with the Lord of Winterfell and his eldest trueborn son.

His hand tightened around the bowshaft, and Jon nodded gratefully to Grey Worm. Taking a few steps, he set the bow lightly upon the nearest pyre, bearing Stark soldiers; men he and Theon both had known since boyhood... The centermost pyres were for the highest ranking soldiers of each culture, forming the first of many long lines. _Two thousand pyres, at least,_ Jon guessed, grimacing, _with near to forty corpses on each..._

Steeling himself, Jon spoke what meager words he could find.

"We have gathered here in mourning. We have gathered to remember our dead. Our husbands and wives, brothers, sisters, friends... our children," his voice choked on the word, remembering his stillborn son. "Without whose sacrifice, not _one of us_ would be left alive to mourn." 

His words sounded empty to him, but the bereaved silence of the crowd broke. Quiet weeping spread around him, and knees began to buckle as Dothraki, Unsullied, and Northmen alike succumbed to the weight of their loss, agonized or stony faces fixed to the pyres, or the ground, others pleaded to the sky.

"There is no solace to what we have lost," Jon went on, "just as there is no measure to what we have won." He stopped, without the faintest idea as to what else he would say.

Turning to Daenerys, he saw that she had straightened her back, if not her legs, and the dragons still hovered low, curled most of the way around her. For a few long moments, Jon watched Daenerys kneel before Jorah, her eyes speaking all the grief that her composure had reclaimed.

Drogon turned to him first, then Daenerys. Her eyes were a red, patched ruin, and she turned away suddenly, her face breaking again. Daenerys rose slowly, lay a hand across Jorah's forehead, leaned in and whispered something for his ear alone. With a short sob, she kissed him softly, turned, and walked slowly to Jon's side. 

The shimmering green of her eyes shone over tender, red skin. "Valar Morghulis," Daenerys managed, her voice tight but clear.

"Valar Dohaeris," Grey Worm, and the rest of the Unsullied replied as one, touching their hands to their hearts. 

"Tonight, in the courtyard," Jon said, "we will gather again, to celebrate our victory. _Their_ victory," he added, more importantly, speaking of the dead.

With a glance at Grey Worm, the Unsullied Captain passed him the torch, and Jon walked slowly to the pyre that bore Theon's bow, and a dozen Stark men besides. He knew every one of their names. He had for years, now. _"Know the men who follow you, and let them know you. Don't ask your men to die for a stranger,"_ Ned Stark had said it often... Jon knew the dead before him, and called them friends, if he had not seen much of them in recent years.

"Hail the glorious dead," Jon said.

"Hail," the Northerners replied, and Daenerys as well. Jon touched the torch to the oiled wood and watched the flames curl eagerly around Theon's bow. Within moments, the pyre was ablaze. 

Jon handed the torch to Grey Worm, who lit the nearest of the Unsullied. Grey Worm mourned every man on the pile by name, Jon knew, but none more than White Bat, who had survived to just an hour before the Dawn. Grey Worm passed the torch in turn to the Dragonlord, Khava, who set alight the nearest of the Dothraki. Khava raised her one remaining arm high, and sang the first long, mournful note of a song that was quickly picked up by the other Riders.

The first three altars signaled the rest, and Jon moved back to Daenerys' side. The Queen was standing still as stone by Ser Jorah, facing away from all else but the old Knight and her children.

Daenerys spoke no word of encouragement. The dragons leaned close to the pyre and, whistling gently, kindled the flames to life within the wood.

***

Fifty paces away, South and East, Arya watched the grey smoke billow into the morning sky. Upwind, yet still the stench of smoking oil and cooked meat cloyed her nose. Nymeria sat beside her, and Ghost to the other side, a bit farther off.

When the last of the pyres were alight, Arya turned her grief to the bodies of three-hundred-six wolves that had been dragged to this spot. 

The lesser wolves had wanted to leave their dead where they lie, and let their bones return to the earth, to grow grass and feed prey, as was the custom. But Nymeria and Ghost had urged their pack to collect the dead wolfkin, and bring them here, near to the trees. The sun shone the first of its rays over the mountain range, far beyond, and warmth poured onto the ruined bodies of wolves, all still and stiff but for the softness of their fur, whispering in the breeze.

A shuffling caught her attention, and Arya noticed that the pyres by Winterfell had burned to ash, and the crowd was streaming back through the gates.

Ghost howled, short and quiet.

The great green dragon that her brother had ridden turned around curiously, and at once began moving towards the wolves. Jon and Daenerys, near to the only ones left outside the walls, moved along, as well as Drogon.

Arya stood still as the dragons approached her, and marveled to realize she was not taller than one of Rhaegal's claws. The air beneath the beast felt hot as a summer's day, and her eyes were pulled up and over, wide in wonder. The dragons walked easily over her, as she might spare a passing beetle from her boot.

The winged beasts settled before the wolves as Jon and Daenerys joined her. Without any hesitation, the dragons loosed long, sweeping spouts of flame over the dead wolves, but for the first time there was no screaming rage behind their flames. It seemed strange to her, that such power could come as quiet as a spring wind. 

Nymeria and Ghost tilted their heads and howled, the rolling cry echoing in the valleys and then through the trees, when the remainder of the pack joined in the song.

_Death,_ they cried together.

"Hail the glorious dead," Arya said softly.

"Hail," Daenerys and Jon said together. The wolves kept up the howl until the last of those they had lost rose, to smoke and memory.

The Queen set a hand on Arya's shoulder for a moment, squeezed, and turned away. After a lingering look at Jon, who remained, Daenerys walked stiffy back towards the Castle, moving as Arya once had, with two knife wounds in the abdomen. Grey Worm, and five Dothraki fell in behind their Queen.

"Ghost," Jon said softly, and the White Wolf looked at him a moment before trotting after the Dragon Queen, who was at first surprised, and then delighted to find him at her side. The enormous wolf allowed Daenerys to lean heavily on him as she walked.

Drogon followed the Queen with his eyes until she was within the walls, then leapt into the air. Rhaegal did not follow, but lowered his head, to look on her. Arya stared back, awe and wonder on her face, as well as fear.

"If _you're_ right," Jon said suddenly, a begrudged continuation of their argument about Sansa, "then we don't have much time..."

The dragon turned away, lowered his shoulder as Jon reached up, and caught a rung high on the chain. Turning back, Jon held his hand out, and Arya took it eagerly. The dragon raised his shoulder and hauled them up.

_So much higher than I thought..._ Arya thought, with a nervous joy sitting hot in her stomach. Nymeria was bigger than any horse, and yet the Direwolf could fit under her thumb from here. _And we're not even flying yet,_ Arya thought excitedly, wrapping her arms around Jon while Rhaegal raised his wings.

***

Jon was ready for the force, and Rhaegal took one step, two, and leapt into the air with a thunderous roar that seemed tame, compared to what came－ not ten minutes later－ when they circled over Castle Cerwyn.

Narrowing his eyes, Jon leaned over and scanned below for the distinctive triangular shape of a Scorpion. The materials for a crossbow so large, and strong enough to pierce dragon hide, were hard to come by, though not as rare to find as a craftsman skilled enough to make one properly. Relieved－ if not surprised－ that Cley Cerwyn had not produced a Scorpion, Jon urged the dragon lower and double checked, circling twice again, to be certain.

Content to Rhaegal's safety－ as well as his own, and Arya's－ Jon urged the dragon down towards the stone arch, reaching up and over the Kingsroad Gate. That gate had been shut to them as they marched North, Jon remembered furiously.

The courtyard was packed with men, women, and children in plain furs. They screamed and cowered when the dragon beat his wings, sending snow and gravel battering against the innocent folk. The dragon crashed to the stone arch over the Kingsroad Gate, arched his head low and roared, sweeping his rage over the crowd.

_Why haven't they run?_ Jon noticed the armed guards at every entrance nearby.

"Give me an hour," Arya growled in his ear, and the pressure of her, at his back, vanished with it.

***

Arya slipped lithely down the chain that hung over the dragon's side, and it deposited her into a shrubby, wooded thicket just outside the Kingsroad Gate.

She slid between the bars of the gate and tucked herself out of sight. Everyone was watching the dragon, who was still making quite a show on the wall, screeching and hissing while Jon stared coldly over the people, searching.

Unseen, Arya slipped her hand into the dark leather satchel over her shoulder, pulled out the face she had chosen, and decided his name. _Edric._

Arya laid the man's face over her own and opened his eyes. A girl found it pleasant to choose from the names of her ancestors, and Edric Stark had been Lord of Winterfell during the reign of Jhaeherys the Wise.

Edric stood. She could never feel the way her body changed, though she knew if she looked in a mirror she would see not the diminutive Arya Stark, but a tall man, broad of chest and handsome, with kindly eyes that had lied often, before Arya's dagger found him.

Nobody gave Edric a second look as he shuffled along to where it was quietest. The lone guard posted on a small side-door never saw the strange man, or his Valyrian blade, before it cut through throat and windpipe. The body fell easily into the scraggly bushes nearby. Not invisible, but hidden well enough, given the commotion. The dragon had finally quieted, but Jon was making an address, and she could have heard him if she stopped to listen.

She took only the time to strip the dead soldier of his ashen gray cloak, and cover the corpse with the brown she had worn. _Valar morghulis._

Edric breezed through the door, shut it behind him. Inside, walking along, she listened intently at each door she passed. Most were silent. Behind a few, whispering, fretting and grumbling. Useless noise, until, at last she heard what she was looking for.

"... bring it to the Queen, and tell her what she wants to hear."

At that, she paused, and waited until the slightest clink was heard at the latch. At that, Edric whirled and moved with purpose past the door, nearly crashing into the man who stepped through it.

"Whoa!" Edric reached out and steadied the silver tray the soldier held, a tray loaded high with lemon cakes and a steaming pot of tea. _Sansa's favorite..._

"Sorry 'bout that!" Edric said jovially, with a nervous chuckle. "That for the Queen?" The soldier looked timidly on him and nodded.

"Good thing," Edric breathed, falling in fluidly beside him and walking aside, "I was rushing to be done with it, but I might want to let you in first," he jested, "put her in a good mood before I ruin it."

"You report to Queen Sansa?" The solider asked him, his eyes fixed on the tray so that nothing would spill.

"Well, I don't have much choice, now do I?" Edric sighed, and watched the tray-bearer glance at him.

"I suppose not," the soldier replied glumly. "She's... a bit cold, yeah?"

"Yeah," Edric agreed with a bitter laugh, "a bit."

"She threatened my wife," the soldier admitted with a quaver. "My kids..."

Edric's mouth twisted in distaste, and he sighed sullenly. "My brother," he replied sadly, "and his lovely new bride."

The two walked in mutual quiet until the soldier's step slowed for half a heartbeat, and Edric slowed with him, seeming almost as if he had stopped first. The grandiose, gilded black door looked as strong as it did beautiful. It was very much a door that Sansa would hide behind.

"Right, well," the tray-bearer said, "you want to go in first, or?"

Edric shook his head. "I'll let you get that tray out your hands, mine might take a bit." The man nodded agreement, grimacing at the tray before looking back.

"What's your name?" The man asked, and Edric gave his, then asked the same in return.

"Kovin," he replied, then glanced a ways down the hall. "Do you mind? Just...? I don't think Queen Sansa will be pleased if she thinks I set you to listen at the door."

"Course," Edric replied, taking a few exaggerated steps down the hall. "Good luck," he added, and the soldier grinned and re-balanced his tray so that he could knock twice.

"It's Kovin, Your Grace." The tray-bearer let himself in without waiting for a reply, and Arya's blood ran cold.

Sansa had not called him in, and Arya knew her sister demanded _explicit_ admission to her chambers, even among her family. _The door would have been locked..._

For half a minute, she waited, but there was not another sound that came from behind the black oak. Loosening dagger in sheath, Edric stepped fearlessly to the door and opened it without knocking. The silver tray Kovin had borne was set on a small table, just inside the door, the pot of tea still steaming.

The room beyond was large, dim, and seemingly empty. A lavish chamber with a great white canopy bed, furs and colorful art hung along the walls. It _smelled_ like Sansa; there was her hairbrush, one of her gowns... all her trinkets and fine things, laid or hung neatly around the room. 

This was her chamber, but Sansa was not here, and neither was the man who had called himself Kovin... Arya inhaled, long and deep, to find his scent was not faint, but gone, gone as if it had never been there. _That's not possible..._ Arya fought back the fear rising in her, schooling her face, and reminding herself that she was _Edric_ , not Arya.

By the low-burning hearth was a large, cushioned chair. The dying embers cast a faint orange glow, enough to make out the man sittingthere. His hands were steepled before him, familiar blue eyes watching her by the time she noticed him. Loose, shoulder-length red hair shot through with white. A man was dressed in Cerwyn armor, looking smug. 

_Jaqen..._ Arya would have said his name, but a Man had no name, no matter how she had always thought of him.

"Hello, Arya Stark."

Pulling Edric's face from her own, Arya looked long on Jaqen H'ghar before she finally asked her first question. "That was you then?" Arya asked, speaking of the soldier, Kovin.

"No more than a girl named Arya Stark was called Edric... And no less."

"Why are you here?"

"Does a girl not know?" Jaqen asked with a dry grin.

"I mean who are you here _for?_ "

"A man will speak the truth, if a girl offers it to him in return," Jaqen replied. Arya considered for a long time, then nodded. "How does Arya Stark wear the faces?" Jaqen asked. "Arya Stark is not no-one."

"I don't know," Arya began, a partial truth, and thought hard on it before she gave her best guess. What made her more than someone else, more than no-one... "I'm a warg," she offered finally, shrugging.

Jaqen's eyes lit up, though his face remained neutral. "And so the wolf-girl was born attuned to changing skins, and seeing through another's eyes," he said, as if he understood at last. "A girl speaks the truth," he commended, "and so a man will do the same. The Many-Faced God demands the one named Sansa Stark."

Arya inhaled, cast her eyes down a long time. "She's my sister," she said helplessly.

"A man knows," Jaqen replied. "And he understands Arya Stark may not be willing to offer her sister to the God of Death. And so a man must come himself, to do what must be done."

Arya wanted to say that she could do it, that she _would_ do it, for Jon... and yet it was the very thought of Jon that gave her pause. If she killed Sansa, would she be able to keep it from Jon? Could she? Part of her felt it was her responsibility to kill Sansa... people had died already, because a girl had ignored her instinct, and hesitated add her sister to the list of names that Arya had kept. 

"What will Arya Stark do instead?" She asked finally, and the Faceless Man smiled at that.

"Arya Stark will say nothing," Jaqen said importantly, "A girl will let Kovin and Sansa Stark talk in secret, yes?" Jaqen waited until she nodded, though it took her a while. "Today, Arya Stark will trade six lives, to the Many-Faced God. One had been offered already," Jaqen said knowingly, and Arya recalled the guard she had killed. "Arya Stark will save Lady Jonelle, and the companions of her brother, and the Mother of Dragons... A man will do the rest."

Jaqen rose from his chair by the hearth, but Arya stepped in his path, not yet done with her questions.

"Where were you?" She demanded. "Why didn't you help us fight, in the Great War?"

"A man had no business in _fighting_ in the Great War," Jaqen replied, and Arya sensed the lie even if she could not see it.

"You're a liar, and I don't believe you," she accused. "You know the God of Death. You were _here_ , all along! But when the time came for us to _face_ Death, you－"

" _Undeath_ ," Jaqen hissed the correction. Loose strands of red hair trembled with the rushed whisper. It was the closest to anger that Arya had ever seen him. "The _Thief of Life_ a girl saw at Winterfell," Jaqen said seriously, "that was not Death, Arya Stark... The Many-Faced God speaks with many lips, every pair as honest as a man himself," Jaqen said no more on it, and Arya only stared at him, trying to pick out the truth from his cryptic riddles. "A man must go now," Jaqen said, brushing past her.

"Wait!" Arya called, catching his hand and turning him around. "Who are you?"

Jaqen smiled fondly at her hand, clamped around his own, and raised both up. He touched his lips to her hands, before he finally answered. "Does a girl not know?"

Her eyes widened, and Jaqen nodded politely when Arya released her grip on him. "We will not speak again, Arya Stark. I wish you well, in your lasting life..." Jaqen chuckled, breathily. "The boy, who became a girl, who became no-one, and all the while, a girl kept her name for herself..." The Faceless Man looked proudly on her and bowed deeply, with one hand on his blade, the other at his heart. He did not break his gaze.

While she watched, Jaqen's face blurred, transformed, and took again the nervous brown eyes and hair of Kovin. The smile was the same, even if the face was different.

Arya blinked, and found the room empty. The silver tray by the door had vanished with him.  
  



	37. Those We've Lost (III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _King Jon Targaryen makes a proclamation to the people of Castle Cerwyn. Sansa plans for the future. Arya confronts her mistakes._

  
The dragon's scales glimmered faintly, like a dark forest iced over with spring frost. The overcast had lifted, and the air was rich and warm, with ample sun shining from a cloudless sky. A rolling fog hung close and heavy over the ground below, where cold frost met warm sun.

Hissing, Rhaegal beat his wings, obscuring the light from the people of Castle Cerwyn, and landed upon the North Kingsroad Gate with a crash. The dragon leaned into the courtyard and screeched, manic with rage, lashing his head back and forth and demanding immediate subservience. The smallfolk cowered lower, faces long turned to the ground in despair. With much pity for them－ for Jon knew better than most, the terror that came with being at a dragon's mercy－ he glared over the crowd, fixing his malice upon the armed guards, who stood sentry at every entrance and exit.

"Give me an hour," Arya growled, and vanished.

Jon smiled mirthlessly, to see the guards looking as craven as the common folk, but still, the soldiers held trembling weapons point-out; every blade free of sheath, and every bow nocked with an arrow, ready and waiting to loose.

Fuming as Rhaegal bellowed, Jon was not surprised to see that Cley was nowhere in sight... but he had expected to see Sansa. _She will come,_ Jon thought sternly, and grunted when Rhaegal lurched suddenly to one side. In the same moment, an arrow bounced uselessly off his hide, not an arm's length from where Jon sat.

Rearing up, the dragon arched his neck with a sharp scream; gaping jaws rushed for the nearest battlement. With a sharp _hissss_ , Rhaegal crushed the man's torso between his jaws, then whipped around to face the crowd.

The guard's lower half slid a short distance, tumbling madly, spilling blood and gore; the upper half, Jon did not expect to ever be seen again. Rheagal raised his wings and thundered a warning over the Castle grounds, then quieted suddenly, save for the long hiss he took with every breath. A choking silence filled the air, and unable to help themselves, people turned eyes up from the ground to rest in terror on the dragon.

"My name... is Jon Targaryen." A hushed confusion rippled across the crowd, but he had expected that much.

Until now, Jon had been known to the Northern people as the _Bastard of Winterfell, The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, The King in the North..._ titles all belonging to a man named Jon Snow. But the smallfolk would not be likely to recognize his face, let alone his newly-assumed name.

"Until recently," he went on, "I was called Jon Snow..." Jon did not pause at the murmur of recognition. "I was renamed in sight of the Old Gods, when my sister, Arya Stark, wed me to Queen Daenerys, of House Targaryen; rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and the Protector of the Realm," the anger built in his voice; he shouted, impulsively, "and the _Gods-sent_ woman who risked her _life_ to save each and every one of you!"

Rhaegal spread his wings and screamed assent, sweeping his mammoth-sized head low and eyeing the crowd at their level. People cowered back, scrambling to get as far from Rhaegal as they could－ needlessly－ but Jon was the only one certain of that. The dragon was in his control, excepting anyone foolish enough to raise a weapon first.

_Let him try..._ Jon thought murderously.

" _Cley Cerwyn!_ " He shouted the name as a challenge, for the man himself to hear it, wherever he was hiding, "You stand accused of _treason_ , for abandoning your oath of fealty to House Stark... Do you deny it?" Jon let the silence hang a moment. "You stand accused of _desertion,_ of the fight against the Dead, in the Great War. Do you deny it?"

The only response was a long, quavering silence, and Jon pitied the folk who looked around expectantly, as if their Lord would arrive at that moment to face his trial. For near a full minute, Jon waited, and watched the dawning sweep across the terrified faces of the crowd. Rhaegal arched his neck and spread his jaws with a rumbling croon, a rolling bray that Jon knew to be the laughter of dragons.

"Your _Lord_ ," Jon sneered, "would have damned you, and your children all to join the Night King's army, just to stoke his own pride! _All of you_ will spend the rest of your days indebted to Queen Daenerys, _and_ her dragons! She risked _everything_ to save you; she has done so for her people before, and I have no doubt that she will do so again!"

"Do not believe him!" A guard shouted, and every eye turned to him at once. He was near to the front of the crowd gathered below. Jon did not know the man's voice, but his rank and status were made clear by shining armor and a thick, silver cape. The officer was not ten paces off, facing the crowd, with his back to Jon and the dragon. "We are no one's people but our own! That _boy's_ crown rests on tales of snarks and grumpkins from Beyond the Wall, and the Targaryen _Witch_ uses his madness for her own gain!"

The fool had not turned around once during his rant. Slowly, Rhaegal lowered his great horned head, eyes blazing with eagerness, sliding down behind the speaker. People closest to the officer backed away slowly, eyes gaping, but the man did not seem to notice, and went on in the same bitter tone. "And even _that_ is assuming the _Mad King's_ _Dau_ －"

Quick as a viper, Rhaegal raised his head and poured golden flames straight down onto the guard. The fire raged on, despite all panicked beating of his arms. When the screaming was richest, Rhaegal snapped at him, tossed the body and vanished it into gaping jaws. The dragon bared fangs of blood and glistening silver, dripping with fluid, at those who remained. Jon felt the beast's fervor, pounding in his chest; the bloodlust grew fiercer with every life spent, and all Jon could do was lean into his assumption that Rhaegal would not harm the innocents; the people to whom Rhaegal's mother－ and rider－ were both sworn to protect.

"For the Queen in the North!" A woman cried, materializing from the crowd with a longbow drawn back. The arrow loosed, striking just under Rhaegal's eye before bouncing off; Jon felt the sting of it, then the _rage_... The dragon unleashed a firestorm on her, well before she could hope to nock her second arrow. People nearest to the blaze were forced to dodge, many with their skirts or cloaks aflame, panic-stricken as they freed themselves of their burning vestments.

" _Enough_!" Jon barked. With a prolonged, sweeping shriek, Rhaegal beat his wings and _hisssssed_ , daring the next to step forward. None did.

_The Queen in the North..._ Jon thought with a pit in his stomach. The woman had screamed it, she had _died_ screaming it... Jon's eye darted up from the woman's still-burning corpse. _Sansa... Where is she?_

There was not the slightest chance, anymore, that Sansa had not heard about the _dragon_ perched on the front gate. _Where?_ Jon searched the crowd desperately, glanced at every door into to Castle Cerwyn, expecting to see Sansa just stepping through, or standing before any one of them. _She must be delayed, probably by Arya, and her bloody questions..._

The thought was even less comforting than he expected, and the pit in his stomach turned to ice. Especially when realizing that, even as he searched, Jon did not recognize a single face in the crowd. Varys he knew to be dead, but where were Tyrion and Davos, Missandei and Idri? They would have come as soon as they heard the first call of the dragon in the sky above... None of the old folk in the crowd were familiar to him either, and Jon had known－ from his boyhood－ more than a _third_ of the elderly folk who had been evacuated from Winterfell. _Where are they?_ Jon thought, hating the doubt that clawed at him, feeding a small and growing anger. _Where is Sansa?_

Realizing the crowd had gone silent, Jon swallowed his misgivings, and spoke clearly to the strangers below him. Rhaegal settled some, lowering a bit as he accepted the crowd's submission.

"Not a half-year past," Jon said, "I was chosen as King in the North. Not _just_ because of who my father was, but because the Northern people trusted me at my word, as they trusted Ned Stark at his." Even if _Jon Targaryen_ was a stranger to these folk, Eddard Stark was known to every Northerner as the most honest and decent of men; Jon could have wept to see eyes turn from Rhaegal to him, bearing some small hope within the fear.

"By the laws of Westeros and the North, I am your King," Jon said it simply, but left no room in his voice for doubt. "Cley Cerwyn is charged with treason and desertion, and has refused to attend his own trial... _I_ _－_ Jon Targaryen," he did not let himself hesitate, "King of the North and the Seven Kingdoms－ now sentence him to die."

_With luck,_ Jon hoped, _they will deliver him in chains, and there might be a proper execution._ A hanging or beheading would sit better with the people than a live burning－ or worse, the obliteration of Castle Cerwyn－ and Jon would sleep easier tonight for it.

Rhaegal crowed sharply, tossing him a bit, and turning his great head back to glance behind; the dragon fixed Jon in his glowing red gaze, and Jon understood that Rhaegal would not stand for his definition of a _proper_ execution.

_So be it, beast..._ Jon thought with a frown; the dragon blinked, and turned away.

"In one hour, _we_ _－_ "Jon pat Rhaegal's neck,"will return. And we _will_ bring Fire and Blood, to all who those who still stand with Lord Cley, and every other despot Lord of his like!"

When Jon said it, he had felt utterly heroic, but the peoples' faces twisted in dismay, shaking and weeping; mothers clutched whimpering babes close, fathers wrapped arms around them and hugged them tight, murmuring consolation. _What sort of monster_ , Jon wondered grimly, _could inspire as much fear in these people as a grown dragon?_

"Listen to me," Jon implored. "I have known Cley Cerwyn my entire life... He will _not_ die for _you,_ " Jon vowed. "My father used to say that a man should know those who follow him; he knew that even a _King_ cannot expect his people to fight and die, for a stranger."

The eyes of the crowd were on him now, not in fear, but intrigue. They were _hearing_ him, or at least they were remembering his father; he could see hope on them, even if they still glanced in terror at the dragon. Jon let that hang a long time, thanking every God in the sky that Ned Stark had been the man he was.

Rhaegal grew restless beneath him－ as a horse grows restless, on scenting a wolf－ but where a horse showed nervousness, a dragon displayed fury. Rhaegal lashed his tail, hissing sharply from one corner of the courtyard to another, raising his wings in warning.

"Any men or women who deliver Cley Cerwyn to me alive will be pardoned of all their former crimes," Jon declared, and paused. Sensing his readiness, Rhaegal drew himself up high and turned his eyes skyward.

"All men must die," Jon shouted to the people gathered below, "but today... let there only be one."

The dragon spread his wings and roared, unleashing the threat of doom on every person beneath. Launching off the North Gate, Rhaegal flew in a low, tight circle over the Castle. The people below would see a monstrous shadow, blocking out the sun. Rhaegal banked hard, and put the North Gate ahead of them.

"Dracarys," Jon growled, and Rhaegal beat his wings twice, slowing. In the screaming fire, the metal bars glowed, and the wreathing flames clung stubbornly to the stone, after it was done. With great ease, Rhaegal reached, claws-out, clutched the stone arch and ripped it free. Without the archway, the rest of the North Kingsroad Gate fell to ruin behind them.

Rhaegal took him high and circled, while Jon stared sadly below. Sansa had not come, and in his heart, he began to realize how, and _why..._ he would likely not see her again.

_You have your hour, Arya,_ Jon thought with heavy heart, and wondered if he would ever have the nerve to ask what his little sister had done in that time. 

***

The dragon assumed a dizzying height, and Sansa wondered if the beast could see her from here, as a hawk could spot a mouse from the air. The Queen in the North had watched all along, while her _former_ half-brother issued his utterly predictable threats. Still, it was annoying that the people had not delivered her husband to Jon at once. Per usual, the common folk had proven themselves near to useless, though they had served well, as a shield. Some distance above, from a reinforced stone parapet, Sansa glared at the rabble, smug and bitter at once.

Jon _Targaryen_ had not been the only one to be recently _wed in secret_. In a way, Sansa pitied him; Jon had never been of quick wit, and he was being as easily manipulated by Daenerys, as Cley was by her. _It will be a pity,_ Sansa thought with a dark smile, when each man realized he had been only ever been a means to an end, to controlling what she could of the North and biding her time, playing on her enemies' weaknesses, while she planned a way to rid herself of her new _"King."_

Sansa scowled. Cley's arrogance was exhausting, but his army of loyalists were reliable. The smallfolk who had been corralled into courtyard by her husband's men－ at her behest, as her _good King Cley_ could not be relied upon for any originality－ had bought an hour. Sansa was not fool enough to believe any one of the peasants would remain a moment longer than that; people were already gathering into groups, glancing often at the ruined gate, even as the guards moved to cover it.

The two guards at her back followed obediently behind, while Sansa turned and made her way down the hall. She kept her breath steady and her pace swift, ruing the corset at her waist and clutching her skirts; in short time, she was halfway to the prisoners' chambers.

An exchange should work well enough, considering how sentimental Jon always was. Sansa rounded the corner to the prisoners' hall, wondering if Ser Davos or Missandei would do her better. Davos was nearer to Jon's heart, and the Onion Knight was old enough to be disinclined to hitting a woman, even under threat of death... but Davos was stronger, and clever than Missandei.

Her decision yet unmade, Sansa stopped short when her eyes found the prisoners' door ajar. The telling silence behind it, and her own curiosity, brought her hand out to push gently against the wood. The swing revealed a corpse five paces back, with a bloody crater punched clean through steel breastplate. The door thudded to a stop, half-open, catching on the waist of another corpse. He was twice as big, and dead from a single, minute puncture wound to the throat, still trickling a tired stream of red. The rank scent of blood pushed Sansa back a step, and sent her turning to scurry for her chambers, but a rustle at her foot pulled her eyes down.

On an open-faced piece of parchment was writ, in dry ink bearing Missandei's tidy print:

_"Yer assi._

_You lost."_

Beneath the text was a crimson wax seal; the Lannister lion, with its mane a blaze of flame. Horrified, Sansa swallowed her shock and schooled her face.

"Keep close to me," she barked to her guards, and the soldiers followed a step closer as she made all haste for her chambers, fuming. Escaped prisoners or not, the _Queen in the North_ had not _lost anything_ ; not while there was breath still in her lungs... _though this damned corset is making even that simple matter into a challenge._

The hallways were long and empty, and the guards' footsteps echoed. Sansa cast a dozen nervous glances over her shoulder to ensure she was not being followed－ and to make certain that her guards' knives were sheathed－ until, at last, the large black oak door of her quarters appeared. The men followed her in, and with a sweeping glance to ensure the room was empty, she bade them to wait just outside the door.

The men nodded and turned, shutting the door behind them. Sansa locked it, leaned against it, took a few long breaths, and swallowed. Pushing herself off the door, she began collecting her things hurriedly, stuffing them into traveling bags already laid out neatly across the bed.

"I was behind the door, before you ask."

_Arya_... Sansa schooled her terror to a teary-eyed smile and whipped around. Arya was sitting at the table just behind her, elbows on her knees and fingers gently laced, an unreadable expression hidden somewhere in large, dark eyes.

"Thank the _Gods_ you're here," Sansa choked out. "Lord Cley is insane... He... he forced me to marry him! He says we're going to defeat the Targaryen invaders and rule the North together," Sansa took a step closer, and whispered, " _Please,_ Arya. You have to kill him!"

Arya stared at her a long time, and Sansa tried to read deeper into her expression. There was no chance that the anguish on Arya was genuine, but it had not wavered, not once.

***

All the words were right... everything was there to explain what had happened; all of Sansa's suspicious behavior wrapped into five neat sentences. A handful reasonable claims and a bold request; all of which together, as truth, would alleviate Sansa of her guilt, prove her loyalty, and explain _everything_ _..._ If only Sansa had spoken the words for truth.

"Cley won't bother you anymore," Arya replied evenly, and watched Sansa assess the response. "Why did you send a man to kill Jon?"

"I didn't!" Sansa gaped, shaking her head. "I would never do that! _Cley_ must have..."

"Did you know?" Arya cut her off, and Sansa stopped. "Did you _know_ that Cley had sent a man to kill Jon and the Queen?"

"I... I didn't think..."

"Don't lie to me, Sansa," Arya warned darkly.

"I didn't _know_ , Arya!"

"Don't－"

"I would never do anything to hurt Jon, or Daenerys!"

" _Liar_!" Arya's hand lashed out; a weighted dagger buried itself into the bedpost closest to her. Lurching out of her chair, Arya took three measured steps to stand before Sansa. "Doing _nothing_ is the same thing as doing _something_ , if someone ends up dead for it," she growled. "Tell me the truth."

Sansa stared at her with wide eyes, shaking her head in denial－ leering at her－ as if Arya were mad. A girl kept her face still, until all at once, Sansa relaxed; she wiped her eyes, and when it was was done, there was no innocence left to them, just cold anger, and a familiar irritation.

" _Why_ , Sansa?"

"Because the North shouldn't be forced to _kneel_ or _burn_ at a foreigner's command," Sansa said slowly; a long-founded habit when she answered a question she considered very stupid. "Because I would be a _better_ Queen for the North than her; because Iwould _end_ wars, where she _starts_ them!" Sansa's voice had risen to a shout. "Because this is my home, and my people swore that we would _never_ kneel to a stranger again."

"Jon's not a stranger..." Arya said softly. "Jon is our family. He's as much a Northerner as you are."

"Not anymore, Arya! Don't you see that? He's a Targaryen now, a _dragonrider_! Do you _really_ think he'll still have time to rule the North? Or to play swords with his little sister, little _Arya Underfoot_ , between riding _monsters_ and sitting on the Iron Throne?" Sansa demanded.

Arya frowned, and cast her eyes down for a long time. Sansa was like a wild animal with its leg caught in a trap, too frenzied to accept aid, and too maimed to survive without it. _Every animal deserves a clean death;_ father used to tell the boys that, while Arya listened on.

"So, what, then?" Sansa said after the long pause. "Are you going to kill me now? Add my face to your little collection, just because I _believe_ in myself... just because I kill _different_ people than Jon does? Is that the kind of _mercy_ they taught you, across the Narrow Sea?"

"No," Arya replied, to all at once. "But I'm not going to kill you." That brought some relief to Sansa's expression, but it was a small thing compared to the satisfaction.

"Then why are you here?" Sansa asked plainly, her eyebrows twitching a challenge.

"I had to make sure," Arya replied with a shrug. The hour Jon had promised was near to ending, yet she found herself stuck in place, the dagger at her belt weighing heavily. The only way to be _sure_ Sansa was dead－ and that she, Jon, and Daenerys would be safe－ was for a girl to do it herself... A girl had hesitated already. People had died because Arya Stark did not want to offer the God of Death another soul by the name Stark.

_Flee,_ Nymeria called out through the bond. _Sick..._ Even a Direwolf, under direct threat, never willingly fought a wolf stricken with illness, least of all a wolf stricken mad, frothing with rage and unable to tell pack from threat.Breaking gaze, Arya turned for the door; she paused with her hand on the latch, and looked back. "I owed it to Jon and father to be sure... even if I never owed it to _you_."

"And what does that mean?" Sansa asked with a roll of her eyes.

"It means _goodbye_ , Sansa." Arya pulled the door open and shut it behind her, ignoring Sansa's commands to stop and come back.

Just outside the door, two guards were slumped over, sprawled out in bloodless death. Arya kept her eyes forward, even when a man rounded the corner of the hall; Jaqen H'ghar dressed in Cerwyn armor, with a covered silver tray held levelly in his hands.

_"We will not speak again, Arya Stark..."_ the Faceless Man had said, not an hour past. Even if Arya had felt up to defying him－ one last time－ the knot at her throat would not permit her to speak. The two swept past each other, without a glance, or any other semblance of farewell.

Rounding the far corner, a girl who had once been blind could not help but listen, and Arya blinked back tears when there came, echoing down the silent hall... a quiet gasp, and a muted thud.  
  



	38. Lady Cerwyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jon and his allies meet the Lady of House Cerwyn. Tyrion makes an observation. Missandei receives honorable recognition._

From dragonback, the Northern morning had never been more beautiful to him; the shadowed gray of the Eastern mountains, illuminated to pearly blue in the West, and all interlaced with white snow and twining silver mist, lit to gold where touched by the sun. Best of all, Jon loved the fresh green that colored the lower, South-facing slopes; that Godly color announced the early days of spring, freed of its icy prison after three days of gaining warmth. 

With such a view, the hour that Jon had promised the people of Castle Cerwyn flew past, and Jon tore his gaze often from the wondrous splendor of flight to peer over Rhaegal's shoulder. A dark mass within the Castle walls－ the captive crowd－ milled disparately in the courtyard for half the hour, until all at once they seemed to gather and pour steadily through the ruined North Gate. Jon wondered then, if he ought fly down at once, but thought it wiser to keep a promise after it was made. More than that, he imagined a premature descent would incite more terror than it was worth, no matter his own impatience to be done with it.

When the crowd breached the walls, Jon expected people to flee in earnest－ to hasten for the nearby, mostly abandoned towns and villages scattered around the countryside－ but as the hour waned, Jon thought that if anyone had fled, the number was not so great as to make the mass seem any smaller. At last, the time came, and with a grim look, Jon urged Rhaegal to his descent.

From South and East, with the sun behind him, the dragon and his rider landed halfway between the North wall and the gathered crowd. Scanning briefly, Jon's dour look tightened in bitter disappoint; Lord Cerwyn was not among any of the nervous faces before him.

With a sharp sigh, he dismounted, and Rhaegal settled behind him; tall and proud, the green dragon watched over his shoulder, as still as stone, save for the fiery light in his eye and the warm rush of his every breath.

"Stay," Jon said in a habitual manner, being more used to addressing Ghost－ whom he had trained to his _word_ , from a pup－ than he was in _willing_ a dragon to his purpose; Jon frowned to remember still not wholly certain _how_ he commanded the dragon, and often did his best to avoid wondering on it.

Rhaegal only blinked, interrupting the stony visage for an instant, and Jon turned. Setting a determined look on the crowd, the King stepped forward.

Near to the front of the silent crowd were soldiers, their weapons stayed, and their eyes fixed in nervousness on the dragon; the common people were gathered behind them, and as Jon drew close, the people parted.

The young girl passed through, stepping forward alone, with neither guard nor escort; she was dressed in a fine gown of dark wool, with a shawl of creamy fur about her shoulders. Long hair of tarnished gold hung down her back, braided away from her face in the Northern style, and a few more twined decoratively among the loose part. The stern set of her mouth looked out of place, contrasting plump cheeks and a rosy blush.

All logic announced the young girl as Lady Jonelle Cerwyn, younger and only sibling to Lord Cley; but before Jon bothered to notice the obvious signs of her identity, he had recognized her. Last he had seen her, she had been no more than five or six. Now, Lady Jonelle was just on the cusp of womanhood. Pretty and poised, her face had become, even if it had not lost the last of its youthful roundness. Stern gray eyes held Jon levelly, as they closed the last few steps to each other.

"Your Grace," Lady Jonelle intoned politely, curtsying as she did.

Per his usual, Jon accepted the heavy title with only a brusque nod. "My Lady," Jon replied tersely, feeling guilty in offering pleasantries to a little girl, one whose brother Jon meant to _execute_ before the day was done... Attempting a more friendly tone, Jon went on, "I am happy to find you well, after all these years. I don't think I've seen you since..."

_Since when, exactly?_ Jon wondered. The handful of years that had passed since his last visit to Castle Cerwyn seemed an age, to him. _For her,_ Jon realized, it was in all reality, _half a lifetime ago_... Despite himself, Jon grinned widely when he recalled when he had last seen her, "Since you and my sister rode those pigs straight through your father's summer tourney."

Lady Jonelle's implacable grey eyes started, and in a heartbeat she ducked her face, blushing. "I am... surprised you remember that, Your Grace."

"It would've been hard to forget," Jon replied with a grin. "Especially when _yours_ was the pig who spooked my horse, and sent me sprawling face-first into the dirt," Jon chuckled, then shook his head, scoffing. How utterly _mirthless_ the ordeal had seemed to the Bastard of Winterfell, at the time.

"It was your sister's idea!" Lady Jonelle squeaked, all sternness forgotten.

"Of course it was." Jon laughed again. "Arya said as much, when our father forced her to apologize to yours."

"My father was _furious_..." Jonelle remembered, looking down until she went on, smiling timidly. "Your father laughed himself red, if I remember."

Jon smiled fondly and nodded; he had been right beside his father when it happened. The man had never laughed harder than when Arya burst into the courtyard, helmeted and mounted atop a galloping hog, holding a broom for a lance and shouting " _Charge_!" with the young Lady Jonelle following just after, squealing right along with the hog beneath her.

"Aye, he did," Jon agreed with a breathy laugh. "I promise, he lectured Arya the whole way back to Winterfell, about the trouble it must have brought you."

Lady Jonelle smiled at that, though Jon wondered if the smile seemed melancholy, and he was certain of it when she said, quite unhappily, "Your father was... a better man than mine."

"He was," Arya agreed, stepping up to stand beside him, as if she had been right there all along.

Starting, Jon whipped around to see five familiar faces gathered behind her; Yara Greyjoy, Tyrion, Ser Davos, Missandei and Idri. _All alive..._

Jon smiled widely, and a breath rushed out as he took their faces in again, one by one. His mirth waned quickly to see their state. Yara's face was split and bruised. Blood smeared her leathers, though Jon did not think it was her own, by the way she held herself. The others were not wounded, but all of them bore a terribly wan look, bruised eyes and sallow cheeks that craved a quick and hearty supper.

"Well," Ser Davos began in a merry tone that did not match his weathered look, "if it isn't _King Jon Targaryen_ , come to grace us with his presence." The old smuggler reached a hand forward with a grin, which Jon returned with ample joy.

"Indeed, congratulations Your _Grace_ ," Tyrion chimed in with a tired, and genuine smile. His tone implied a jest, but Jon knew the man enough to know his words were sincere. Tyrion took his hand and shook heartily, adding, "The people of Westeros could not have hoped for a happier marriage, than your honorable self to her Majesty."

"I agree," Missandei added warmly, taking a step forward and laying a hand on Jon's shoulder. "I am very happy for you both... Your Grace. I know you will be a kind and noble husband to our good Queen." 

Her dark eyes were alight with warmth, but when the dark woman broke gaze, and pat his vestments a few times, at the end, Jon did not miss－ nor did he mind－ the unspoken warning that came with it. It was still strange to him, that women were so apt to mistrust men, despite all claims and proof of love... But in the last three months, Jon had learned more of women－ of mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, and all their strife－ than he had in all the rest of his life. Jon nodded solemnly to Missandei, who took a half step back, and stopped.

"...Grey Worm?" Missandei asked in an empty voice, not meeting his eye until the question was done.

Jon smiled with all the warmth he had to him. "Alive and well," Jon promised quietly, and could have wept for the joy it brought to her sallow face. With a gracious nod, Missandei stepped back.

"Thank you, all," Jon replied thickly, addressing the five of them at once. A grateful, sweeping look over his companions brought him back around to Lady Jonelle, who herself was staring at Missandei with wide eyes; all the color had gone from her supple cheeks, and Jon frowned. He hoped that Jonelle would learn, and more quickly than he had, that _foreign folk_ － Wildlings from Beyond the Wall, Dothraki Screamers, and Slave Soldiers－ were only _different_ , and certainly not the monstrous savages that Northern children were raised to believe in.

"My Lady," Jon began in apology, "I don't believe you have met my companions..." Jon announced them left to right, and each bowed or nodded in turn; Ser Davos most humbly of all. "This is Ser Davos Seaworth. My friend, and most valued adviser... Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the Queen," Jon caught himself before he could address Yara Greyjoy as _Lady._ "Queen Yara Greyjoy, of the Iron Islands," Jon did not miss the surprised satisfaction it brought to the Ironborn woman, and she bowed. Jon went on, "High Priestess Idri, of the Dothraki Dosh Khaleen; and－"

"Missandei of Naath," Jonelle finished for him, her words rushed. Lady Jonelle curtsied deeply and rose again. "Left hand to Queen Daenerys... Master of Tongues, and Voice of the Free People."

***

Missandei started and looked at the young girl with new regard. "You know me, my Lady?"

"Only by the tales that drift North and West across the Sea," Jonelle replied wistfully, ducking her eyes. The girl's brow furrowed in concentration, and Jonelle added in correct－ if unpracticed－ High Valyrian, "It is my honor to meet you."

"The honor is mine," Missandei replied in the same tongue, her brow shooting up in surprise, despite herself. "You speak High Valyrian," she observed, impressed.

"Not very well, I expect," Jonelle lamented in the Common Tongue, casting a blush to her feet. "I had hoped to learn more, before..." The girl trailed off, and a fresh flush turned her cheeks to a crimson that deeply offset the dark gray of her eye.

"I would be happy to teach you, my Lady," Missandei offered kindly. Lady Jonelle glanced up in surprise, and her mouth parted, but she seemed to falter for a reply, so Missandei went on more ostensibly, "Such is part of my duty to Queen Daenerys, as Master of Tongues."

Tyrion added, in perfect High Valyrian, "Missandei is a most accomplished teacher."

"Yes, she is," Idri agreed heartily. "Before her?" The old woman made a pained sound, waving her hand, "But _now_ , I speak near to fluent, even your most _intercat_ Common Tongue."

" _Intricate_ ," Missandei corrected, nodding commendation to the Priestess' ever-widening vocabulary.

"If... I might interrupt," Tyrion announced at the pause, pulling all eyes present to him. Tyrion himself cast an imploring look at Arya.

The Stark girl turned to her brother and spoke at once, gravely. "I couldn't find Cley anywhere in the Castle. Nobody knows where he is for sure. Some say he's hiding, others say he left. If I were him, I'd be halfway to Torrhen Square by now."

"Not so," Lady Jonelle asserted. All turned to her, and for a moment the girl shied under so many, and so important eyes. "My brother," Jonelle went on, "would never leave Castle Cerwyn behind. Not unless he was forced to. The man is quite _possessive_ of whatever he considers his property," Jonelle added bitterly, and Missandei furrowed her brow, not missing her meaning. The young Lady went on, seemingly braver with every word spoken, and uninterrupted.

"Cley is in a stronghold, below Castle Cerwyn," Jonelle said, "There will be near to three-hundred men between the front gate and the main entrance. That one lay deep within the Castle, somewhere near the Lord's chambers..." she cast her eyes down, abashed, "But... I don't know _where_ , exactly. My father always said the stronghold's entrance must be kept _absolutely_ secret. He said girls talk too much, and that only the ' _Lord_ proper' of Cerwyn Hold would ever know where it was. Cley was always smug when he told me I'd never find it, not if I searched every day, as long as I lived."

"And the other entrance?" Arya asked before Missandei could do so herself.

At that, Jonelle smiled. "I am almost sure it is just a half-mile South and East of here. There's an odd little hill near the stables, overlain with a dead pine and a great boulder, with a deep crack, and a little cave behind, and then a door. The door's barred from the inside, and I don't know of _any_ other passage that might lead to it." Jonelle paused, collecting herself, and she turned an imploring gaze to the King. "Your Grace... If you truly want to take my brother alive, I think you will have to be waiting there, when that door opens."

Jon's brow furrowed, and he broke gaze for a moment. "My Lady," Jon began tensely, "I must tell you... I only wish to take your brother alive, so that I might make an example of his execution. I would _never_ hold _you_ , or your people accountable for his crimes, but I will do as I have said."

Lady Jonelle listened placidly, and drew herself up with a slow breath, in a way that reminded Missandei well of Queen Daenerys.

"My brother..." At once, Jonelle faltered, and seemed unable to go on. Instead, she paused, sighed, and started again. "Your Grace, I do not wish to question your judgment, and I would not... not even if it _were_ within my right. I..." Lady Cerwyn ducked her eyes and spoke quietly, "I pray you will not think me wicked, but... I..." The rest was little more than a rushed murmur, "I _agree..._ that my brother deserves to die, for all that he has done."

Missandei looked on, thinking more and more of Daenerys as the young Lady Cerwyn made her heart known to them. As the others looked on, Jonelle shrank back a moment, searching their faces for their thoughts. Catching her eye, Missandei held her gaze, and nodded encouragement. Jonelle stared back at her, then turned again to King Jon. "My brother is a _monster_... and... and he _always_ has been, and he always _will be_ , and he _deserves_ to die!" Jonelle asserted, hotter with every word. "And I say this more knowingly than yourself, Your Grace, of why that is true!"

The brassy-haired, round-faced girl could not have seen more than twelve name-days, but she spoke as a woman grown; her speech was well-learned, as one who reads often and thoroughly, and her stately manner was practiced. Even if her youth showed at times, it was clear that Lady Jonelle was long familiar with the duties of leadership. With sympathy, Missandei understood that such responsibility did not often come _willingly_ to rest on such young, narrow shoulders... and _never_ did it come without consequence. The proof of her burden was there, wet and sudden upon the girl's cheeks, and again, in how quickly the young Lady Cerwyn bit the tears back.

"My Lady," Jon replied after a long pause, "I assure you, I do not think you wicked."

"Nor I," Missandei added softly, just as Davos said, "Me neither."

"Your brother's a bloody arsehole," Yara gruffed, and the others grumbled or nodded agreement, casting irritable, wan looks at each other. The sallow cheeks and bruised eyes added weight to their words of assent.

"My Lady," Jon implored, pulling her attention back from the others. "You know your brother for what he is. I promised your people－ _our_ _people_ － justice for his crimes. I will keep that promise," Jon vowed, "but I have no desire to cut down three hundred fools to reach him, nor do I have the time to wait for him to come out of hiding... What do you think I should do?"

After a pause, Lady Jonelle drew herself up again and looked long at Jon, considering. As Missandei watched, the somber grey of the girl's eyes hardened. Jonelle turned to the dragon. The beast's statuesque stillness broke, and he lowered his great, thorny head at first touch of her glance.

Missandei watched curiously; she had known the dragons most of their lives, and had come to know them for the intelligent, and vocal beasts that they were. As Rhaegal approached Jonelle, crooning curiously, the girl looked more reverent than afraid, even when Rhaegal drew close enough to touch, sniffing and ruffling her skirts. With a strange trill, Rhaegal pulled back, and resumed a perfect stillness.

"If... it were up to me," Jonelle said at last, turning away from the dragon to look again at the King. "Your Grace, if it were my choice..." All her hesitance vanished, and the last part came as a low growl, "then I would have you _bury him_..."

***

**Author's Note:**   
**I was very, very nervous & hesitant to post when I realized how long I'd waited to bring a new character in... honest feedback from y'all is very much appreciated on this experimental writing project!**


	39. Fire and Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lady Jonelle makes a bold suggestion. King Jon struggles with the gravity of his allies' advice. Arya reveals a harsh truth to Jon, and sees an old friend._

"...Bury him?" The King asked her directly, and Lady Jonelle nodded, hoping her manner seemed confident enough, for the weight of her request.

"Yes, Your Grace," she replied, fighting to keep the edge in her voice. "Obliterate Castle Cerwyn..." _Obliterate_ , Jonelle thought proudly, and drew herself up. It was an uncommonly bold word, one rarely befitting such a request; Jonelle had decided on using the word as recently as she had learned it. The rest came as confidently as when she had practiced this morning, more so even. "...And with it, the Lord's entrance to the stronghold. Force my brother out, where we can bring him to justice."

"Is it we, already?" The Ironborn Queen asked gruffly.

Lady Jonelle started and ducked her head, abashed. "I... I should _hope_ so, Your Grace," she replied, and resented the heat that flashed along her face, which grew only more prickly to realize the King was staring at her.

 _I thought the Dragon King, of all people, would be eager to accept..._ Jonelle wondered, unable to look away. _But, he looks... sad. And... he is still staring at me. Oh, Gods, am_ I _supposed to convince the bloody_ King _to_ _－_

"Do it," Tyrion Lannister said; his voice was firm and resolute, even on only two words.

Lady Jonelle muted a sigh of relief as the King turned to Tyrion. Jon's somber expression hardened to stone. And, though he had been softspoken and respectful in speaking to _her_ , only a moment ago, Jonelle flinched when King Jon barked his reply.

"You expect me... to destroy an _entire_ Hold, just to unseat one corrupt Lord, and bury three-hundred of his most loyal fools alive?"

Nobody replied, and Jonelle kept her eyes set, firmly downcast. Unanswered, the King went on, even sharper than before.

"Does that not seem... _excessive_ , to any of you?" The King was angry, and turned a sweeping look over them all. Jonelle flinched when his eyes came on her, and she took a small, involuntary step back. She kept her eyes down, and he turned back to Tyrion, "What kind of King would I be, if I－"

"A _smart_ one!" Tyrion snapped, taking a sharp step forward. Jonelle shied back another step, but brought her eyes up enough to watch. _Cley would have had him jailed for speaking so sharply..._

"You have a _rare_ opportunity here," Tyrion urged. "A chance to _show all of Westeros_ that under the rule of Jon and Daenerys Targaryen, the common people are safe and protected, while the Lords and their Castles are _not_!"

Lady Jonelle frowned at her feet, wishing she had put it so eloquently... When she had been the first to suggest destroying Cerwyn Hold, she had done so thinking it would show the Northern people－ as well as herself－ that Cley could, and _would_ be brought to justice.

"I did not think of that," Jonelle admitted quietly, not wanting to interrupt any more than she wanted her newfound allies to overestimate her guile. Tyrion looked at her, and the kindness in his eye was strange to see, on an otherwise-haggard face.

"A few more years of experience, my Lady, and I am sure you will come to understand all the fine details that produce a _great_ idea... from a good one."

The unexpected praise brought a rush of heat to her cheeks, which Jonelle hid under a deep curtsy. Thankfully, by the time she rose, Tyrion had returned his attention to the King, who himself was was staring off, somewhere far and away from any of them. Finally, he turned a questioning look to Ser Davos.

The old man cleared his throat. "Were I yet _still_ not more than a Flea Bottom vagrant," Davos spoke experimentally, as if he were imagining his words as he said them, "and I came to hear that the newly-claimed King of the Seven Kingdoms, Jon Targaryen... lawful husband to the Breaker of Chains... If I heard that _King Jon_ had ravaged a despot Lord for all his worth, and managed to spare every innocent life..."

The way the old man finished made his opinion clear, but the King only stared, and Davos summed his thoughts with a simple admission. "It's a good plan, Your Grace."

 _Flea Bottom,_ Jonelle wondered, and realized she had not expected to learn the well-spoken, if unusually casual Ser Davos had once been a commoner. _Lower than common,_ Jonelle realized, recalling what she had read of Flea Bottom, the Capitol's most impoverished slum.

"I agree," the Greyjoy Queen resolved. "And you know as well as I do, that Cley Cerwyn won't be the last crooked Lord who tries to use their people as a shield."

Lady Jonelle watched, and pitied King Jon. With every word spoken in agreement, Jon only looked more helpless, the lines of his face drawn deeper in anguish. _I started this..._ she recalled, and regretted everything she said until Tyrion broke the pause in a low voice.

"I believe this what Daenerys would want... The choice, of course, is yours to make, Your Grace..." Tyrion intoned seriously, "But if, and more likely _when_ Daenerys is forced to make example of Lord Cerwyn, you must understand that _her_ reputation in Westeros will suffer more for it than yours would, even under the very same circumstances."

Something changed in the King's expression, and his voice was soft when he asked, "What do you mean?"

"For destroying Cerwyn Hold..." Tyrion explained, "most of Westeros will see Daenerys as _a_ _woman scorned_ , punishing Lord Cerwyn not for his crimes, but to appease her own vanity... _If_ anyone ever bothered to make mention of Cley's crimes, his wrongdoings would still likely be forgotten, one by one, until it was said... that the Dragon Queen destroyed an entire Hold, because Lord Cerwyn refused to kneel, and call her Queen..."

The Queen's Hand had spoken gravely, and more sadly when he went on, "The people would dismiss Daenerys Stormborn for another Mad Queen, no better than Cersei _or_ Aerys... and they would fear Daenerys more than either. After all, what could be more terrifying to a Westerosi," Tyrion asked, in sorrowful rhetoric, "than a beautiful young woman... with all the power to match her rage."

All the while, King Jon had listened intently, and he did not break the pause.

"On the other hand," Tyrion went on, more brightly, " _You_ are a King. And from a _King_ _－_ and one who is rumored far and wide to be a very _good_ King－ Westeros will be far more apt to see the destruction of Cerwyn Hold as a swift, and ruthless deliverance of justice."

King Jon was silent, eyes shut and shoulders slumped. Lady Jonelle wanted desperately to add her voice to the group's assent... to _kneel_ if she must and _beg_ him to do what must be done, for Queen Daenerys, for herself, for _all their people_... but to see such helplessness, and on a _King_... it was more than Jonelle could bear. She turned her eyes down and waited for someone else to break the quiet.

"Jon," Missandei said softly, stepping forward. Jonelle glanced up. How strong and sure, Missandei seemed, holding the King's eye, speaking his _given_ name, as an equal... The Eastern Lady lay a hand on his arm, and spoke quietly, to Jon alone. "I fear Lord Tyrion's assessment is correct... _Your_ war is already won," Missandei reminded him, "But ours is not. And I am almost certain that if you do not do this, Queen Daenerys _will_ be forced to do it herself."

The King's face twisted. "My _sister_ is still in there!" he cried out, gesturing with sudden desperation to the Castle. His voice came as a broken shout, "And no matter _what_ Sansa has done, I will not risk _burying her alive_ without first trying to speak some sense to her!"

"Come with me," Lady Stark said suddenly, brushing past her brother as she did. Arya had been so quiet that Jonelle had almost forgotten she was among them. With a tight look, the King followed his sister a few dozen paces off, and Arya spoke to him in a voice too low to hear.

"My Lady," Tyrion addressed her, "I hope you will forgive King Jon for his indecision... _To be a king, and wear a crown,"_ Tyrion quoted, _"is more glorious to those who see it, than it is pleasant to them that bear it..."_

"Queen Rhaenys said that," Jonelle replied, earning a nod. "All my life... I have heard stories about him," she went on, nodding to King Jon, whose face was convulsing in reaction to whatever Arya had told him.

Lady Jonelle dropped her gaze and turned away, feeling impolite to watch on any longer. Tyrion copied her posture, and the two turned to look upon the dragon, who, with a statuesque stillness, watched his rider with eyes of crimson and gold as if the others were not even present. "I suppose I thought he would seem... fiercer," Jonelle admitted at last.

"King Jon is... a great deal gentler than he lets on," Tyrion replied, and Jonelle wondered if the man spoke with fondness or regret.

"I would expect so, my Lord..." Jonelle replied, "if he wed the same Queen that I have read so much about."

The Queen's Hand gave her a long, searching look; they were of the same height, and Jonelle could return his gaze without craning. Just as Jonelle smiled, to realize the look was one of approval, she started.

Straight past, King Jon swept by, and the dragon let out a soft shriek, lowering his shoulder. Up a wide-runged chain the King climbed, without even a passing glance at any of them. Before his boot had left the ground, the group below was cast in the shadow of the dragon's wings.

***

 _"Sansa is dead..."_ the chill in Arya's voice wrenched at his mind. _No,_ Jon thought, the same thing that he had whispered, in reply... the same denial he stubbornly clung to, despite the tortured knowing in his heart.

Rhaegal cried out, took one lurching step forward, two, and leapt. Wind lashed at Jon's face, ripping the tears away from his eyes; icy claws raked along his temples. _"Sansa knew about the assassins... She wanted you_ dead _, Jon... you and Daenerys both."_

"No," Jon moaned as the Castle grounds spun below him. His refusal altered nothing of the truth. It never had... and still, Jon shut his eyes against the answer... the simple answer to the same relentless question, asked an unanswered a hundred times, without ever passing his lips.

Why had Sansa not sent for aid sooner, why had she not called on the Eyrie's forces _before_ the Battle of the Bastards had been all but lost?

 _"She wanted you_ dead _, Jon..."_

"Fool!" Jon screamed, and Rhaegal echoed his fury; the dragon loosed a long and tactless sweep across the Castle grounds.

An inconquerable rage rose in Jon, demanding release; the world grew strangely quiet behind a ringing in his ears. It was some time before he realized he was screaming. Raze after raze, the dragon poured all their fury below; flashes of red built, and built... spreading until they consumed everything in sight.

Dimly, Jon realized his throat had gone hoarse, and likewise, Rhaegal paused in his destruction. The dragon swept in a wide arc, and Jon thought his fury would calm some, to witness... to _appreciate_ the chaos which Rhaegal had lain. Every rooftop burned, sending thick plumes of scorching smoke; a sharp rumbling came, and came again as smaller buildings－ chapels, homes, and markets－ all crumbled to ruin one after another.

But somehow, the ocean of flame surging between every wall... the scorching winds and crumbling stone... none of it was enough... the storm inside of him only grew, and Jon set his eyes on the towers that still stood immune, their gray peaks standing high above charcoal ruin and crimson flame.

At his whim, Rhaegal slowed to hover; the South tower stood before them, wholly at the dragons' mercy. Northern lords had always made their chambers there, in the brightest warmth of the sun; Lord Cley would have... _so would Sansa..._

 _She wanted you_ dead _, Jon... you and Daenerys both_. "Dracarys."

Rhaegal obliged with a furious wail. Jon did not know exactly how long the dragon wreathed his ruin on the reaching stones, only that the tower gave way to the flame, and collapsed onto itself. There remained only a tall ruin of blacked stone, and endless fire. Time seemed to collapse on itself, and before Jon realized, they had landed in the same spot as before, just South of the crowd.

The blackened heap of rubble that had once stood as Cerywn Hold still burned eagerly. The only gravemarker Sansa would ever have... Thick, dark clouds rolled up high in an otherwise cloudless sky, and the noonday sun fell into shadow.

***

Arya had not stayed to watch, after Jon took to the sky. Instead, she turned at once and made her way South and East.

At a quick, steady jog, Arya went wide around the walls of Castle Cerwyn; in short time, she had reached the clearing where the stables lay. The stables were bustling with common folk, who－ in between shocked glances at the dragon, laying waste to the nearby Castle－ were readying carts and animals with great haste.

Nobody noticed the plainly-dressed girl; she took up a small handcart and wheeled it to the Eastern treeline.

With slow, searching eyes, Arya peered among the trees and kept to higher ground; quickly, she found the odd hill that Lady Jonelle had described. Tall and oblong, overlain with an enormous, and long-dead pine, likely the same culprit who first cracked the enormous stone at the hill's base.

Ducking under the dead pine, Arya fit herself through the boulder's fissure with ease. A few paces ahead, a thick iron door stood closed to her, just as Jonelle had said. Despite the timid trust Arya had in the young, and perhaps _overly_ honest Lady Jonelle, Arya tried the door. Barred, from the other side.

With nothing to do but wait and listen, Arya slipped back through the cracked rock face and squatted in the nearby brushline, out of sight. The thick treecover obscured all sight of the dragon, but to her sharp ear, Rhaegal's fury came as a furious and frequent thunder, interlaced with the sharp rabble of tumbling stones. The crackle of fire gained, until even the falling stones seemed dull by comparison.

Sitting herself down fully, Arya hugged her knees to her chest, finding it hard to imagine that _Jon_ was the one inciting such utter destruction...

It was not long before muted voices drifted through the cracked boulder. Arya sprung from sit to crouch, and in the same motion, freed dagger from sheath. In a moment, the door burst open, and eight armored men streamed out one after another, making straight for the stables, passing by without any notice of her. After the eighth soldier came Lord Cley; tall, well-built and handsome, adorned with a flowing cloak of silver and black fur. Three more guards followed after him.

 _Twelve men,_ Arya thought grimly, a number that made victory a stretch, even with all her skill, nevermind that Lord Cerwyn's personal guard was likely comprised of the best fighters in his Hold...

 _Today, Arya Stark will trade six lives, to the Many-Faced God,_ the Faceless Man had told her. And all six names were already offered...

 _Wolf-girl,_ came the familiar commendation. Arya glanced over her shoulder. There were more than a dozen wolves nearby, but Arya saw only one pair of ochre eyes, barely glimpsed before they vanished to the brush.

None of the wolves were Nymeria; the great She-Wolf was still recovering from her wounds, a dozen miles North of here. Of the ones present, three were familiar, bearing fresh, itching burns incurred during the Long Night. Others, who had been left behind from the fight, were all new to her: young Direwolves and common wolves, none of whom had yet seen the end of their first year.

"It was an _inevitability_ ," Cley assured the soldier, who hastened a step to catch up, after shutting the door behind. "If it brings you any peace... Know that after today, every Northman will understand as we do, why it is _imperative_ to refuse the Targaryen rule... After all, what sort of _savage_ would bury his own sister under stone and dragonfire?"

The men moved swiftly for the stables, and Arya let them get just ahead of her, keeping her eyes pinned on Cley's back.

 _Yours..._ the wolves acknowledged, and with all the quiet of a spring wind, they moved into position along the overgrown path. There were more than two wolves to every man, and the pack leapt as one animal. Three inch fangs scraped along armor, buried into kneecaps; but most of the soldiers had lost their throats before their legs were even touched.

Lord Cley staggered back a few steps, tripped, and fell over a convulsing soldier. "Shit!" On hands and knees, he slipped in the blood that spurt from his man's open throat. " _No_... Wait... Stay. Stay back!" The wolves closed around him, snarling, scarlet dripping from their fangs, staining the fur on their faces. Their eyes burned, and they snapped eagerly, gaining inches at a time toward Cley's outstretched hands. Whimpering, Cley lowered himself and put his face to the earth, calling for the Gods.

Arya's boots came before his eyes. Before his gaze could rise above them, Arya brought her dagger down at the top of his neck. Cley crumpled, and the wolves shared a short, wild keen before they started on tearing the armor from the dead.

Ignoring the wolves, and their feast, Arya rolled Cley onto his cloak. She was glad for the softness of the silk, as she dragged him more easily behind her than she expected. A few dozen paces brought her to the forest's edge, where she had left her handcart.

The tall, muscular man demanded every ounce of her strength, and some clever leveraging to get him into the cart, and even then, Arya had to adjust him from the other side to distribute his weight properly. With a few heavy breaths, Arya paused, and looked skyward; Rhaegal had reduced most of Castle Cerwyn to charred memory, but did not seem intent to stop until every tower had fallen.

Taking up the handles of the handcart, Arya pushed straight on, to the stables. She kept to the edge of the fray of common folk, all making ready for travel. An old man, standing a ways off by himself, was hitching a gray-nosed mule to a small cart. Arya moved towards him, and when the old man turned a sidelong glance her way, she grinned and stopped, astounded.

"Master Hullen?" Arya blurted. The horsemaster of Winterfell had been as old as Ser Davos, last Arya had seen him. Unconsciously, she had assumed Hullen to be long dead by now. His gray hair had paled to white, but other than that, he looked as keen and spry as ever.

"By my blood... Lady Arya Underfoot!" Hullen turned his surprise from her to the conspicuous load in her hand cart. After a pause, he laughed merrily. "Gods be good, but your mother and father always knew you'd be wild!" The old man laughed again, and returned to his work as he went on, tightening straps on the mule's hitch.

Arya smiled. "Where have you been? I didn't see you at Winterfell... thought you were dead by now," she admitted.

"Likewise there, little Lady!" The old man sneered, though he winked to show his jest. "Your brother sent me South just 'fore you returned, to make ready the stables down White Harbor way, for 'is return from Dragonstone with the Dragon Queen's army..." Arya only listened, stroking the mule's nose; Hullen had never been quick to a point. "Now, I wasn't sure your brother'd come back, but a'course he did. I rode back North with 'im, and the Queen's men. Rough sorts, the lot, but not so rough as I'd 'eard to expect of foreign folk... Any'ow, your brother'n the Queen sent me here, with the rest of us rabble, to wait out the storm... 'Fore I know it, I'm getting herded into the dungeons by _his_ men," Hullen jabbed a gnarled finger at the man slumped in her hand cart, "along with all of us who came South from Winterfell! It were only just this morning, when Lady Jonelle comes and sets us all loose, in a fright... says we got to hurry outside the walls, and be right quick about it, if we weren't yet sick of breathin'."

"I'd heard Jonelle was imprisoned, too," Arya said neutrally, as if making idle conversation. Arya had expected to free Lady Jonelle herself, along with the others, but she had found the girl's chambers open and empty. "If she let _you_ out, who do you think let her out?"

"Dunno that, milady," the old man replied, bending over to set a belly strap on the old mule. "But I learned quick among the Cerwyn folk, that anyone glad to be rid of _him_ ," Hullen nodded again to her hand cart, "would like be just as keen to see Lady Jonelle free and well..." Hullen tugged the belly strap to ensure it was secure, then stood upright, with a wide grin. "Now, _she_ is a _proper_ young Lady, that one. Not like yourself... but no worse either," the old man added with a smile and wink. Hullen pat the mule a few times on the shoulder, as he had always done when he finished a hitching.

Arya grinned her reply, and gestured to the mule. "Do you mind?" Arya glanced at her hand cart. "It's a bit heavy for me."

"Course it is, little Lady," Hullen replied with a chuckle, handling the leads off to her. He put a hand on her shoulder and leaned in close. Hullen's crisp blue eyes were deadly serious, and he spoke as sternly as ever, when his animals were concerned. "You be good to old Bella, now," Hullen shook her shoulder a bit, "I've known that there mule more years than you've got to your life."

"I'll be careful," Arya promised, twisting free of his gentle grip and stuffing a few handfuls of sweet grain from a nearby barrel into her pockets. In the handcart, Cley moaned a bit, and with a narrowed eye, Hullen took out some leather cord and wrapped it firmly around Cley's hands. With ease, the old man hoisted Cley up and over his shoulder, like an oversize grain sack, then flopped him roughly into the cart behind Bella.

Arya thanked him, though she doubted the restraints would be necessary, after how she had knocked Cley's head. Bidding Hullen a quick goodbye, Arya took Bella's leads and made for the narrow cart-road that ran outside the West wall of Castle Cerwyn.

The sky was empty but for the endless smoke; the dragon had landed some time ago, North of what remained of Cerwyn Hold. Besides the sudden spring melt, which had washed the road to grim state, there were dozens of blackened stones scattered about the cart path, and Arya led old Bella slowly along the smoothest route she could find. The jostling cart must have roused Cley some, and he started moaning halfway along, then came-to enough to speak.

"How did... uhhhh... how did you..."

"Your sister gave you up," Arya replied without looking at him.

"That... little... _bitch_ ," Cley croaked, his anger pulling him farther from delirium. His head rolled weakly, and his eyes gazed, unfocused all around. "We're... are we alone? Untie me," Cley hissed, pulling weakly at his bonds, moaning to realize how weak he was. Even at full strength, he would have a hard time fighting a restraint tied by Master Hullen. Arya said nothing; she did not look back, and led Bella around a half-collapsed wall. "Please," Cley whimpered, his voice clearer. "Please, I'll give you anything you want. You'll never hear from me again... just let me go! I don't... I don't want to die."

" _Valar morghulis,_ " Arya said in a low voice, and finally looked at him. "Isn't that what you told your men to write in Varys' blood, after they murdered him?"

Cley only gaped at her, and he said no more, only grunting now and then as he fought his ties. Arya led Bella the last of the way and stopped. Most of the crowd was waiting where they had been, and in front was Lady Jonelle and the others: Davos, Missandei, Tyrion, Yara, and Idri.

Jon was still on top of the dragon, and the two looked on, in mutual stillness, at the smoking, blackened scar that had once been Cerwyn Hold. Despite his vantage, Jon did not notice her approach, as the others had; he gazed with empty eyes at the destruction he had brought.

 _Jon..._ Timidly, Arya called out to him the same way she would call to the wolves. His eye turned to her, and after one last grimace at the fresh ruin, he climbed down.

***

When Jon stepped forward, the dragon shifted a bit, as if to follow. Jon turned back, and gave the beast a hard look. "You've done _enough_ ," he growled, turning away. A buffeting wind at his back told him that Rhaegal had taken to the sky.

Roughly, Jon grabbed Cley Cerwyn by his bound hands, and all but dragged him towards the rest of his allies. Just ahead, Lady Jonelle was standing straight as a pin needle, arms folded tight behind her back. A large wooden crate was set just before her, and Jon slowly realized that it was meant to serve as the headman's block.

"Jonelle!" Cley moaned. "Stop this madness at once. What would mother have said, if she knew..."

Lady Jonelle spoke softly, interrupting, "With your permission, Your Grace... you have passed your sentence, and... now I will pass my own."

"Jonni... _please_!" Cley moaned, but Jonelle did not even glance at him. "Jonni... I... I'm sorry. I swear, I only shut you away to protect you! Just look at what the Targaryens have _done_... Jonni, look at me!"

Lady Jonelle had not broken gaze, and Jon nodded to her.

"Cley Cerwyn," Jonelle began gravely, and the man turned his face down and wept. Her timid voice gained, and carried as the quiet settled. "By King Jon Targaryen, you have been found guilty of treason and desertion. By the people of Cerwyn Hold, you have been found guilty of the same, as well as embezzlement, rape, and murder..."

Jonelle's voice hardly wavered, but her words were tight and clipped. Cley sobbed quietly, falling to his knees while Jonelle turned her implacable gray eye to Jon. She nodded curtly, and stepped back.

Drawing _Longclaw_ from his sheath, Jon put the sword point-down, as his father had done, and said quietly, "In the name of Daenerys Targaryen, the first of her name; Queen of the Andals, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm... I, Jon, of the House Targaryen, King of the North and the Seven Kingdoms, sentence you to die... If you have any last words, you may speak them now."

Cley turned a red, blotched face up. His face twisted, from wide-eyed fear to bare-toothed rage. Finally, he spat, and set his mouth in stubborn silence. Ser Davos and Arya took Cley by the arms, and forced him down to lay over the wooden crate.

 _Longclaw_ took Cley's head from his shoulders with one clean swing, and it was done. 


	40. Loyalty and Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Daenerys struggles with her injuries. The survivors of Castle Cerwyn return to Winterfell. Jon and Daenerys meet in private before attending the feast together._

Each step burned as Daenerys made her way along the grounds outside Winterfell, past still-smoking piles of charcoal, past where she had burned Ser Jorah... past the mangled corpse of Viserion, still half-slung over the ruined South wall. Daenerys gagged at the sight of him, and turned her eyes down.

Every pace closer to Winterfell brought more agony; the spasms at her waist were just short of debilitating, and only the steady pressure of Ghost at her side kept her upright. The leather corset beneath her charcoal gown was like a vice, crushing the tender flesh at her waist, turning every breath to a burden.

With Grey Worm and four Unsullied as her escort, the Queen forced her feet through the South Gate, up the stairs and back inside the Castle. There was some comfort for her, in the rhythmic, steady marching of the Unsullied. With the going so slow, Daenerys knew that by the time the doors shut again behind her, Jon and Rhaegal would be descending upon Castle Cerwyn... Grey Worm dismissed three of his soldiers, all but Mazmak, his second in command, whom Daenerys had come to know well in the long years he had served her.

The entrance foyer split; to left and right, twin pairs of great, gilded doors that would open to the Great Hall, where the most grievously wounded were still being tended night and day... and just ahead, the tall stair that would lead her up, and back to her chambers.

Ghost made the decision before she could, and stepped forward. The hand Daenerys had laced tight into his snowy pelt was pulled along, followed by the rest of her. All the while, her heart tugged behind, trying in vain to pull her towards the maimed, lying broken in the Great Hall.

At the base of the stair, Grey Worm offered his arm, which Daenerys took with a bashful glance at Mazmak, who dropped his gaze respectfully. Though she had always tried to keep an air of unconquerable strength, around all her subjects, save those closest and dearest to her... the pain she tried so often to hide, until now, had never been so physical, nor so unbearable.

Even with Ghost and Grey Worm to either side, Daenerys only just made it up the stairs, wincing and grunting with every step gained. Her legs were numb, and they trembled at the stair's summit. When Mazmak opened the door to her chambers, her knees gave away beneath her.

Grey Worm caught her weight, and Yathi appeared as if from thin air, taking her other arm before Daenerys even noticed the Dragonlord behind the door. Her vision swam, and the swirling darkness brought with it a dull ringing that drowned all else; the Queen was only vaguely aware of the pressure, when she was lain upon her bed. A cold sweat sent icy prickles along her flesh, and each breath was a long labor, until, finally, the dizzyness passed.

Grey Worm and Mazmak had gone when her vision returned, but Yathi was waiting right at her bedside. The Dothraki woman was a fierce warrior, and even more gifted in healing. Hurriedly, Yathi tucked the book that had lain open on her lap aside, took up a kettle, and poured dark tea into a stone mug.

"Drink, Khaleesi," the Dothraki woman urged, and supported her head while holding the warm stone to her lips. The sweet, nutty flavor of poppy tea warmed her stomach, and within minutes, Daenerys fell into a dreamless sleep.

When she woke, she thought at first that the moon had come down from the sky, to sit beside her and watch her sleep. A few bleary blinks revealed two pale red eyes set within the moon, and Ghost stood suddenly. Yathi, in the same chair, with the same open book on her lap, tucked it aside and watched the wolf with a nervous eye as he moved.

The Direwolf made the furniture seem minuscule, like playthings in a dollhouse, and Daenerys would have giggled if she were not so tired, to watch Ghost turn in a tight circle. The enormous wolf took two dainty steps and lay himself by the door－ very carefully, as to not disturb the furniture－ with a sharp huff.

 _I understand the feeling,_ Daenerys thought, longing for the sky outside the stone walls. Ghost flicked his ears, glancing between her and the door.

A rapid knocking came, and Yathi stood to answer it while Daenerys wrapped her torso with a pale shawl. The gleaming white fur covered over her shoulders and torso, while her blackened, ruinous waist remained hidden under the mottled brown furs of her bedspread.

"Mazmak has returned, _Khaleesi_ ," Yathi called over her shoulder.

The Queen nodded, wondering why Grey Worm would send his second in lieu of coming himself, and Yathi let the door swing open. Like his Captain, Grey Worm's first lieutenant bore rich, brown skin and a stern face, but Mazmak was taller than Grey Worm, and even leaner; his eyes were wider, more expressive, and now they were bursting with excitement.

"My Queen," Mazmak said in rushed Valryian, "Jon and Rhaegal have just returned from Castle Cerwyn, along with the others."

"All of them?" Daenerys winced as she sat up more quickly than she ought to. Yathi grumbled to herself, took up the kettle and poured more poppy tea.

"Yes, my Queen. All have returned, except Varys, who was killed on the first day. Sansa Stark I did not see either, but of this I did not ask questions before Grey Worm sent me to you."

"Thank you," Daenerys said with a short nod, and took the tea that Yathi offered while Mazmak bowed and left her. The Dothraki's poppy tea, Daenerys found, was both weaker and more pleasant to the tongue than the Westerosi milk-of-the-poppy, which left a foul film behind with every sip, and reduced all the finer senses to uselessness.

Gulping the tea down, the Queen tried her best to move slowly as she slipped from her bed, found her legs, and held still while Yathi dressed her in a loose silver-and-red gown that hung freely, layered for warmth about her waist and legs, but light and comfortable to wear; it seemed an hour before Yathi had secured the long, soft strips of crimson cloth over her chest and shoulders and replaced the shift of silver fur upon her chest.

The long, simple braid to one side had held up well enough from this morning, Daenerys decided, and moved carefully towards the door with as much haste as she could manage. Yathi stepped timidly around Ghost, who watched her with pale red eyes as the Dothraki drew back the latch and let the door fall open.

Ghost slipped out, tucking his shoulders and hips to pass through, fur scraping along stone on all sides, and Daenerys followed after him. The white wolf waited just outside, and allowed her to lean on him again as they stepped on together.

Pacing down the hall, Ghost seemed as impatient as she was, each step coming quickly and carefully measured, exactly as long as it could be without her waist protesting.

At the bottom of the wretched stair－ fifteen steps had seemed so _few_ to her, only a few days ago－ the doors to the Great Hall stood closed to either side, and Daenerys wondered when she would have the strength to visit the wounded gathered there.

 _Sooner rather than later,_ she hoped. After only coming _down_ the stairs, her legs felt weak enough to buckle... but every time the Queen passed those gilded doors without stepping through, more people will have died, most without ever having spoken to her directly... With guilt, Daenerys turned her eyes forward.

Two Northmen stood guard beside the door which would lead outside, and each nodded slightly to her, then opened the doors without order. Bright afternoon light shone through the South-facing door, and Daenerys nodded nervously to each man in turn.

"Ma'am," one of them offered, and she smiled, hoping it did not come across surprised, as she stepped past.

A clean blue, and shining sun kissed her face. A warm wind brushed pleasantly on her cheeks, as if in greeting. The dragons were singing together, twisting and soaring in the clear sky above. Daenerys smiled to them, knowing that her children loved nothing better than a clear, cloudless day, with ample wind to bear their wings.

Past the dragons, far to the South, she noticed an unnaturally thin, dark cloud stretching from the ground, high into the blue. _Not clouds... Smoke..._ it took no time for the Dragon Queen to realize what must have happened, and her gaze snapped down, searching for her King.

Ghost moved along, leading her eye straight to him. The wolf trotted over to Jon, and brushed past, then swept straight out the South Gate.

Jon stood as still as stone, staring quietly South. Ser Davos stood next to him, looking nervous as he chattered at his King. Scanning along, her eye found Missandei next, and Daenerys smiled through sudden tears, to see her embracing Grey Worm. Their faces were pressed together, beaming as they murmured to each other. Idri was already moving off, pulled by Khava towards the other Dothraki, who were cheering her return. Yara Greyjoy was not among them; by now, Jon would have told her that Theon had been killed, and Daenerys was not surprised that the Ironborn woman had gone off by herself to grieve. Arya Stark, per her usual, was conspicuously absent.

Missandei caught her eye, smiled, and rushed towards her. Making short work of the stair, Missandei pulled Daenerys into a warm, tight hug; even through the poppy tea, the pain of the embrace was enough to produce a gasp. Her friend pulled back, a worried expression plain on her, and Daenerys shook her head slightly, then faster to notice how pale and gaunt her friend looked, up close.

"I'm so sorry," Daenerys whispered thickly, "I should _never_ have sent you there, of all places..." Any abandoned village South from here would have been a safer haven for Missandei and the others than Castle Cerwyn... _unless Winterfell had fallen_ , a more rational part of her whispered, but the fact did nothing to ease her guilt.

Missandei cast her eyes down a moment. "There are... few easy choices in war," she replied soberly. Daenerys hated the wan look on her face, the bruising under her eyes, the hollowness of her voice... "and in the Great War, Your Grace, there were none. Castle Cerwyn was the _only_ Hold we could have ever hoped to reach in time," Missandei reminded her.

Daenerys tried to believe her, as she had believed Jon when he had told her the same... but Missandei looked worse off _now_ than she had as a slave...

"If you want something to apologize for," Missandei went on sternly, though she smiled, "I would have liked to have _been_ there, for your wedding..."

Surprise warmed to joy on her face, and Daenerys saw it returned in the Naathian woman's gleaming brown gaze. "Jon told you?"

Missandei chuckled. " _King Jon Targaryen_ made his name known to all of Cerwyn Hold," she returned with a proud air.

The others had noticed her by then, and had gathered at the base of the stair. Jon was staring at her, his dark eyes swimming with some terrible knowledge she was not yet privy to, boring a hole into the joy of having her friends returned to her safely.

Daenerys glanced skyward again, at trailing, faraway smokestack, and pulled her eye down. _Soon enough,_ she decided, and forced the worry from her mind.

"Your Grace," Tyrion greeted her. He looked glum, but offered her a tired smile and bow. Davos bowed quickly, offering the same title, then returned his pensive look to Jon.

Except her husband, who had left Winterfell only a few hours past, the lot of them looked half-starved, and hardly able to stand upright. The poppy tea was still sinking in, slowing her thoughts, if not dulling her emotions, and Daenerys could not find any words fit to describe how happy she was to see them alive, even if their grim state made her stomach churn...

"My friends," Daenerys managed thickly, "I'm afraid... you all look how I feel..." Everyone shared a depreciating chuckle, save Jon. "Come..." Daenerys insisted, "come inside, please. There is much to say, but we will speak _after_ you are fed and rested. I'll have food sent to your rooms," each word came stickier in her throat than the last. Daenerys looked on each of them again, beaming as tears pooled in her eyes.

Each of them bowed, offering heartfelt thanks, then moved along on tired, shuffling feet. Daenerys watched each of them as they passed by; _stared,_ as if she might never see them again, and she felt weak with joy to _know_ that she would.

Last of all to step forward was Jon, who offered his arm and led her back through the Castle Gate. Once they were walking, he would not look at her, and her joy waned again to worry; _a tower of smoke..._ It had been obvious even a dozen miles away. Jon's eyes were fixed on the ground, a few paces ahead of his feet.

At the base of the stairs, Daenerys paused and glanced up nervously. There was a twitching pain in her legs, and she was certain they would give out before the top. _I'll have to find new chambers..._

Silently, Jon stooped a bit and swept her up into his arms, and carried her up the stair. It would have made her smile, if there were any life in his eyes.

He carried her all the way back to her chambers, nodding silently to the Unsullied door-guards as he passed by, and set her upon the bed. With a quick glance, Daenerys dismissed Yathi, who scurried out the door and shut it behind her.

With a heavy sigh, Jon sank down on the floor, leaning back against her bedframe. He stared silently at the wall, motionless but for his breath.

Misliking his silence more by the moment, Daenerys lay herself down sideways on the bed, and draped her hand across his chest. Jon took it, pressed it to his heart, and sighed. They were quiet for some time, long enough for her curiosity to challenge her patience.

"What happened?" she asked softly. Jon did not seem to hear her, staring at the wall as if carved from stone.

"I burned Cerwyn Hold to the ground," he replied in a soft, empty voice.

 _He burned Cerwyn Hold..._ Her hand tightened to iron, on his. "And the people?" Daenerys demanded, fighting for the calm in her voice.

"Lady Jonelle got them out... She's leading them to Winterfell. They should arrive by tomorrow afternoon."

Daenerys breath rushed out, and she pressed her free hand to her face and shut her eyes. _He burned Cerwyn Hold to the ground..._ It horrified her to think that someone besides herself could command Rhaegal to such violence. _But none of the people were harmed..._ If she had been fit to go herself, this morning, would she have done any differently?

"And... Lord Cley?" Daenerys asked softly, reclaiming her calm.

"I executed him for treason and desertion, in your name..." Jon replied lifelessly.

Considering this, Daenerys nodded assent. It had been no secret that the Dragon Queen meant to make example of Cley Cerwyn, and every other Lord of his like.

Jon was silent for a while. "Jonelle _asked_ me to..." he whispered brokenly, "she said I should obliterate Cerwyn Hold, and force Cley out of hiding... Tyrion told me that I should do it for _your sake_... But when Arya told me that Sansa..."

Daenerys' breath caught as Jon bit back the words, and then growled them, as they forced their way free. "Sansa betrayed us... she betrayed _me,_ before I even met you, my own sister wanted me dead, for my claim to the North!"

"Where is she now?" Daenerys asked calmly.

" _Buried_ ," Jon snapped, and said no more on it. Forgiving his sharpness, Daenerys closed her eyes, feeling first relief, then tremendous shame that her first reaction was one of gladness. She resolved never to mention Sansa again, not unless Jon did so first.

They sat in silence for a while, and knowing there was little she could say to comfort him, she stroked his hair.

"At first," Jon began again, in a lifeless whisper, "it was like I had no control... I don't _remember_ deciding to... but when I looked down and saw the entire Hold in flames, I... I was glad for it. I was _glad_ for it, Daenerys!" She flinched at his sudden anger, though it tapered to bitterness by his next uttering, "I am not fit to be a King."

"You are," Daenerys returned at once, a panic rising quickly in her. They had both given their vows, to the other, in the Godswood... _Will he abandon them now,_ Daenerys wondered, fighting her rising fear, _now that he knows what it means, to be the blood of the dragon?_

"The dragons..." Jon began in a broken whisper, and her blood ran cold... _Who could ever love a dragon?..._ "I know that they're not the mindless beasts that everyone thinks... no more than the Wildlings, or Dothraki screamers. But... all that power..." Jon turned his face to hers, and held her eye. "...it _terrifies_ me."

Daenerys held his gaze. "It should," she said soberly. "...And it is that very _fear_ that makes you more fit to be King, than any man I have ever met. That choice is still yours to make," she reminded him, and in a firmer tone added, "but you _must_ make it _before_ I march my armies South."

Jon tightened his grip on her hand, and he looked on her with anguish plain on his face. "I have already _made_ my decision, Nera..." he said fiercely, and Daenerys misunderstood him until he pressed her hand to his lips. "I am more frightened now than I have ever been... But I offered you my hand in sight of the Old Gods," despite his pain, he smiled, "and I would be a fool to take it back."

Beyond words, Daenerys pulled gently on his hand until he crawled into bed and lay with her. How she longed to stay with him, restive and quiet for as long as they desired... but the feast that Jon had announced this morning, before the burning, was set to begin at sundown. And already, the hours were already waning to late afternoon.

When the sun touched upon the Western mountains, Jon helped her up and out of bed. He poured her a fresh mug of poppy tea from the kettle that Yathi had left by the fire, replaced the white fur shawl over her shoulders, and before she could ask, he picked her up and carried her from her bedroom to the entrance hall.

With the Great Hall being used for an infirmary, the feast was set to take place outside. Beyond the doors, a half-hung moon shone low in the indigo sky, brushed here and there with wisps of silver clouds. The first of the nights' stars shone proudly among the colorful, darkening sky, and the people gathered below it were well into celebration.

Every table in Winterfell Castle had been set, a bit haphazardly, throughout the courtyard, and piled with ale, wine, and food. The heavy air of mourning had lifted, mostly thanks to the Dothraki, who had gathered all wooden rubble from the battle, stacked it high next to towering fires throughout the courtyard.

While their fires eased the chill, the Dothraki drums, dances, and chanting pushed back the fog of grief. There were more smiles now, than scowls, and an air of merriment even among the Northmen. The gray-clad men and women still crowded together in close groups, near the tables, but Daenerys thought they watched the Dothraki more jovially than they had before. Of all the cultures the Beggar Queen had known, few were as keen to celebrate glorious death in battle as the Dothraki.

Riders, Unsullied, and Northmen alike rose from whatever seats they had found and parted before her and Jon. His arm squeezed hers a bit, every time a Northman offered a polite "Ma'am," in passing, and Daenerys thought her face would split with the breadth of her smile.

 _They are mine, as well as his now..._ Daenerys thought, looking on the Northmen. The gray-clad men and women were hers, as the Unsullied had been after Yunkai; _hers_ , as the Dothraki, after she had proven her strength in Vaes Dothrak. _They are my people, now..._ she knew it; the look of love and gratitude was on them... on _her_ , as she passed them by.

Her face ached, and Daenerys returned so many respectful nods, making her way through, that she thought she must look like a child's bobble toy. _I dare not hope the rest of the country will come so quickly as they have..._ as quickly as the men and women she had fought alongside in the Great War. The War for the Seven Kingdoms seemed so small a thing, in comparison.

Perhaps the strenuous walk this morning had loosened her muscles some, or perhaps Yathi had brewed more poppy into the tea, but the short walk from the South entrance to the Godswod Gate passed more easily beneath her feet. If there was little pain in the walk, it was still tiring, and she was grateful to see her seat at the head table was well-cushioned.

Their table had been set on a dais, just before the Godswood Gate. To her surprise, Grey Worm and Missandei were waiting there already, with two half-empty cups of wine set before them. Missandei looked no thinner, but considerably brighter than she had a few hours ago. Both rose, grinning as she and Jon approached, arm-in-arm.

An expectant hush spread over the crowd, even the Dothraki fell to quiet, as Jon and Daenerys climbed the dais and stood before them. Jon glanced at her, moving to speak first, but Daenerys beat him to it.

"Before anything else is said, I must thank you..."

As used as the Queen was to giving speeches, she failed this time, to keep her voice from quavering. "I am _honored_ to be standing among the bravest men and women in an age... Thirty thousand people in Winterfell, and no more than a handful of you ever saw the Army of the Dead before they arrived..." Daenerys paused, and let that fact settle.

"You did not fight with us because you _knew_ the threat was real, you fought because you believed us... because you believed in him," Daenerys turned a smile to Jon, and added more quietly, "as much as _I_ do."

***

Jon returned a nervous smile to her and looked over the crowd. They were quiet, and eager to listen, even the Northers... it was still strange, after all the stonewalled glaring they had incurred on the march North. He hoped they would still be eager, when he was done.

"Thank you all," Jon said seriously. "For your loyalty... and for your sacrifice," the heavy reminder turned more than a few eyes down.

"You put your trust in us," Jon went on seriously, "and I am ashamed to say that I have lied to you..." A hushed confusion rippled across the crowd, especially among the Northmen. "I did not fight the Long Night as the man you named King in the North... I did not fight among you as Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell... but as Jon Targaryen, the first of his name," the King tried not to be nervous as the rippling confusion drowned in quiet. "I was wed to Queen Daenerys in sight of the Old Gods, by my sister, Arya Stark, the night before the battle..."

Jon held his breath and waited. The silence hung for half a heartbeat, before a booming laugh rose from Tormund, some short distance into the crowd.

The Wildling rose two horns of ale high, laughing madly. "I knew it!" Ale sloshed down his arm as he jabbed a finger at Jon. "Ohhh, I _knew_ it! We all knew it, you bloody fucking liar!" Tormund laughed again, nearly keeling over forward. Spilling more ale, Tormund spun to face the crowd, climbed drunkenly upon the nearest table and shouted, " _All hail_ the Dragon Queen, and the Draaagon _Kiiing_! _Yeeeaaaah_!"

The crowd joined in the cheer, glasses, horns, and stone cups all raising a toast to them, and Jon laughed heartily when Tormund tried and failed to drink from both of his empty horns, then downed a third one, offered to him by a voluptuous Dothraki woman.

Jon glanced down at his Queen, beaming, and Daenerys leaned over and said, "I thought they would be... surprised, at least..."

"Your Grace," Missandei chuckled, and the two turned to her, "forgive me, but you are both truly two of the _worst_ liars that I have ever met." At that, Grey Worm laughed more heartily than Jon had ever heard from him.

A steady quiet returned, and Jon lifted a horn of ale off the table; he held it high. Daenerys mimicked him, though she held a stone mug of tea, in lieu of wine.

In the Northern fashion, the toast concluded the address without another word; the Northmen would know, if the others did not, that the silence was a toast to the fallen, who themselves had no words left to offer this world.

As one, they drank, and when the King and Queen took their seats, their people returned to their celebration with new heart.

***

**Author's Note**

**This is all I have written so far! Updates are delayed since my puppy chewed my laptop charger, and the new one is delayed in delivery until April 1st, but you can expect an update soon after!**

**In the meantime, what do you guys think of the story so far? Is there anything you want more of? Less? I'm curious as to what you guys want to see, in the (future) ending of this story!**

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	41. Their Own Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jaime, Jon, Daenerys, Tyrion, and Missandei all face important decisions about the future._

Jaime had not left the Great Hall, or even his chair for longer than it took to relieve himself, not since King Jon had dismissed him from duty, not since he first sat down beside Brienne’s broken body, bruised and still on the bed. He had not even left her side to bathe, certainly not to shave, or attend the feast. Jaime slept in unwelcome fits, in a plain wooden chair set just at her bedside. Every moment awakw was spent waiting for Brienne to decide if she would wake, or die.

The morning after the feast, Maester Wolkan woke him. Rather, the squeaky wheel on the Maester’s rolling cart pulled him from a half-conscious slump. Through bleary eyes, Jaime returned Wolkan’s usual nod of greeting and leaned forward in his seat to watch the Maester work.

“Any change from last night?” Jaime shook his head once in reply.

The Maester hardly noticed; Wolkan felt Brienne’s forehead first, then pressed his fingers to her wrist, leaned in close, and listened to her breathing. He nodded. The Maester took from his rolling cart an odd little mallet, which he firmly tapped in specific spots along her body, feeling for a nearby reflex with his other hand. Wolkan tapped the tops of her shoulders, inside her elbows and wrists, then her knees and ankles…

Jaime watched with silent, expectant eyes, allowing himself a stubborn hope.

The Maester frowned, and Jaime sighed, knowing what he would say; the same damned thing, every time…

“No change, I’m afraid. But her heart is strong, and where there is heart, there is hope.”

Usually, the Maester rolled his cart straight off at that, hurrying along to tend the next half-dead man or woman in the Great Hall, but this time Wolkan paused and added, “Ser Brienne is lucky, you know…” Jaime glanced over at him, “to have a friend like yourself. Someone to sit beside her, and hold her hand. It helps her chances,” the Maester nodded sagely to Brienne, “any Maester would tell you the same.”

 _Lucky_ … Jaime thought, seething. “I’m not her _friend_ ,” he snapped, but remembering himself－ and the careful, attentive care Maester Wolkan had given Brienne, and all the wounded, since the Great War－ Jaime swallowed his tone. “I love her,” he explained, more to Brienne than Wolkan.

The Maester smiled, despite all the bruised weariness in his eyes. “Well… Then luck is with you both,” Wolkan said tiredly, taking up his rolling cart and moving on, past and behind Jaime.

“Your Grace!” The Maester chirped in surprise, and Jaime cast a glance over his shoulder.

Queen Daenerys, dressed in a loose, flowing gown of cream and red, nodded respects to the Maester, who set his rolling cart down and spoke more quietly.

“You should not be out of bed so often, nor so soon,” Wolkan sounded half-hearted at best, chastising the Queen, “but…” he sighed, glancing around, “I admit it will do the poor souls here much good, to see you and King Jon.”

The Queen nodded, both in acknowledgement and dismissal, “If there is anything you require…”

“...I need only ask.” Wolkan finished for her with a tired smile. “You have my thanks, Your Grace, but we want for nothing but hope here, now.” At that, the Maester bowed and moved his rolling cart along. The Queen turned her eye over at once, catching his own.

Jaime turned back to Brienne, scowling, and Daenerys appeared quietly at his side a moment later. She was silent for a while, fiddling with the end of her braid, which hung in a long rope over one shoulder, with spiraling ringlets cascading down to either side. The end of the long braid twirled over and over her fingers, and Jaime almost demanded her to stop, when at last she spoke.

“Will she live?” The Queen asked finally, folding her hands.

“ _Where there is heart, there is hope,_ ” Jaime quoted Maester Wolkan with a sneer, one which he had thus far spared the good Maester from. “ _If_ she wakes, she’ll never walk…” His voice broke, “but Wolkan says that with time… she might be able to use her arms…”

Jaime knew that the Queen must have heard the undisguised anguish in his voice, but she said nothing to him. “Even _if_ she wakes…” Jaime choked out bitterly, “That… that is no _life._ Not for _her_.”

“More life than none,” Daenerys replied, but there was no heart in it. “You love her?”

Jaime nodded once, then again, faster. “For years… but I never told her,” he growled, “I barely told myself.”

 _Cersei was right… I am the stupidest Lannister._ All those years he had wasted, knowing _exactly_ how he felt, and refusing himself the truth of it; years wasted, thinking it was somehow worse to love someone like Brienne, than his own _twin_ …

 _Brienne never mentioned Cersei,_ Jaime thought, taking a shuddering breath. _Not once..._ Brienne had had never said a word about it, about Cersei, or him… _the sister-fucker_ …

“She was _kind_ ,” Jaime choked out, bowing his head.

The Dragon Queen set a hand on his shoulder, and he flinched. “She _is_ kind,” Daenerys corrected him, and Jaime raised his eyes. “I… have something for her.”

The Queen took the hand from his shoulder and slipped it up the sleeve of her gown. Out came a tiny glass vial, no bigger than his thumb, filled with an opaque fluid of darkest red, flashing to violet where the light shined on it.

“Dragon blood,” she explained with some hesitance, “Tyrion advised I collect some from Drogon’s wound, after your man nearly slaughtered him, at the Reach…” Jaime glared, and ignored her clipped tone. She went on without urging, “Your brother tells me that in ancient times, the Valyrians used it to cure a sleep like death, and－”

“ _And heal even the most_ grievously _wounded,_ ” Jaime scoffed in an imitation of Tyrion. The man had been _obsessed_ with dragons, ever since he learned to read; every fact Jaime knew about dragons, he recalled in Tyrion’s voice. “Even _if_ those legends are true,” Jaime said in a low voice, “then we both know it’s as likely to _kill her_ as it is to heal her.”

“It is,” the Queen agreed, and pointedly set the vial on the table beside him. The tap of glass hitting wood sounded oddly loud to him, in the pause. “But she’s strong,” she resolved, looking fondly on Brienne.

“You _barely_ know her,” Jaime snapped, and the Queen’s eyes sparked.

“I know enough,” she replied in an iron voice. “If someone like _you_ can come to love her… Try to imagine just how impressive Ser Brienne would seem, to someone like _me_.”

Shouldering her words, Jaime found himself without reply, so Daenerys went on, “I also know that she has nothing left to lose, now. Except all chance of a life, with you…”

The Queen glanced importantly at the vial of dragon’s blood, still set on the table beside him. Warm, hopeful eyes turned from the vial, to Brienne, and then coldly to his own. Daenerys turned to leave.

“Wait.”

Jaime sighed, forcing himself to meet her eye. “I… I’m… sorry,” Jaime took the vial into his hand; it was almost too hot to hold, and seemed to pulse against his calloused skin. He stared at it, mesmerized by the red shifting to rich violet. “Thank you,” Jaime finished, glancing up at her.

Her brow shot up a moment, before she collected herself. “…Thank _her_ ,” Daenerys replied diffidently, glancing at Brienne. At that, she turned and left him.

***

Jon had meant to visit with Jaime and Brienne, alongside Daenerys, but she insisted she go alone. Still, Jon had kept eyes on her, and _Jaime_ , the whole time; the loose, cream-and-red gown on her bore no armor at all, not even hardened leather, and the Great Hall was crowded. _Anyone_ could slip a knife into her waist with ease, let alone the _Kingslayer,_ from an arm’s length…

But after a short time, Daenerys moved along from Jaime and Brienne, looking oddly pleased, and she went at once to visit the Essosi wounded. Sparing her a cautious, protective glance every so often, Jon visited among the Northerners. He saw only a few familiar faces, and even fewer conscious enough to share words.

Among them, Jon was pleased to find Lord Howland Reed. The man was older than Ser Davos; as old as Ned Stark would have been, if he yet lived. Howland had been with Jon’s father through the whole of Robert’s Rebellion, from the Crannog to the sack of King’s Landing and farther South, to the Tower of Joy, in Dorne, where Aunt Lyanna had been found dead in her chambers…

The Crannogman seemed asleep. His bare chest was bound in cloth, with ruddy stains－ some fresh and some old－ all clustered near to his heart. A grievous wound, one that any man would be unlikely to recover from, let alone a man with no black left to the grey in his hair. Jon knelt by Howland, put a hand on his, expecting to offer only a quiet prayer.

At his touch, Howland’s eyes snapped open. “J-Jon?… _Jon_ …” The old man woke fitfully, eyes wheeling, then gripped the leathers on Jon’s chest, pulling him closer with a rough hand.

“Do you _know_?” Howland demanded, his eyes blazing.

“Know… what?” Jon wondered. Lord Reed’s eyes whirled, and focused on him again, even more urgently.

“Your _name_ , boy!” Howland breathed. Fresh crimson peaked through his bandage, “Jon… you’re… _a_ _Targaryen_.”

“I know,” Jon assured with a smile, glad to offer the old man some comfort; Howland had the glazed look of a man about to breathe his last.

The Crannogman shuddered in relief; his face relaxed, and the man began to sink back to his bed. The color was going from his face, but his ragged breathing went on.

Jon smiled. It pained him to know that another man who knew Ned Stark was leaving this world, but he was glad for the chance share the news with Howland. Father had called Howland Reed his best friend a hundred times or more, and Jon liked to think Ned would have been proud of him… Of all the ways it might have happened, Ned Stark’s _former_ bastard had married a Queen, and taken her noble House for his own.

Howland’s eyes were fluttering, nearly at peace, but men of war were apt to fight to the last breath. “I didn’t expect you’d’ve heard already,” Jon added jovially, a distraction for the dying man, “that I wed Queen Daenerys.”

Howland’s eyes bulged wide, and he seemed to seize. “Your _father_ ,” Howland gasped. His face convulsed; his mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. The hand clutched to Jon’s leathers loosened, and the Crannogman dropped back, eyes blank.

Jon called for the healers, who covered Howland in the green-gray of his House’s banner, emblazoned with the black lizard-lion of House Reed. Unsettled, Jon shook the encounter off, and moved along to visit others.

When Jon noticed Daenerys begin to limp, he strode to her side importantly, and requested her attention to an urgent matter. In truth, his only intention was on setting her down to rest, which the woman so often needed, and refused.

 _I bet Arya would be proud of that one,_ Jon thought smugly. _What was it she said, about using the truth to tell lies?_ For himself, at the present, there was no matter more urgent than making sure Daenerys got the rest she needed. He told her as much, leading her back to the Lord’s Chamber of Winterfell.

Hours ago, in the early morning, he had commanded every memory of Sansa be scrubbed from the Lord’s Chamber and burned. It was late afternoon by the time he and Daenerys returned to it, and Jon was pleased to find his order carried out well. The scent of earth and flowers－ Dothraki incense, he knew by now－ greeted them through the door, and besides the well-tended hearth, and polished furniture, it looked as unoccupied as a chamber could look.

Daenerys gazed around gladly, appreciating every corner of the large, spacious bedroom. Jon sniffed a laugh.

“There’s a bit more space for you here, compared to my Aunt Lyanna’s old chambers,” Jon said in apology. Daenerys only smiled, and took a grateful seat in the large, cushioned chair by the hearth.

“I can still see my father in here,” Jon said fondly, looking around. “Like glimpses, from when I was a boy… I can see him writing letters, there,” he nodded to the desk. With slow steps, Jon took the other seat by the hearth. “He used to sit here,” Jon said, patting the armrests of his seat, “every morning and night, while he read.”

Daenerys smiled again, but said nothing, and then Jon was sure that she seemed preoccupied. She was fiddling with her necklace, an oddly-shaped steel key hanging from a long silver chain. He implored her thoughts with a look.

“Did you… ever read Sam’s letter?” Daenerys asked him softly.

Jon stared, then sighed, resigned to confront it. Every time he had spared a thought, wondering on Sam’s mysterious letter, Jon had managed to find something else more pressing to focus on.

“No… I’d thought about burning it,” Jon admitted.

“Why?”

“Because I know Sam,” Jon replied heavily, “I know the look he had, when he gave it to me, and made me _swear_ not to open it until the Great War was won. Whatever Sam wrote in that letter… I am sure that I don’t want to know it.”

Daenerys frowned, still fiddling with the key around her neck. Jon thought it must have to do with the same letter Sam had given to her, containing the same information.

“I’m so…” Daenerys struggled, then hissed, “so _bloody_ sick, of secrets! I’m tired of war, of politics… of doing the _right_ thing, and suffering for it…”

Jon took her hand. “We made the North wait,” he reminded her, “for the _right_ time to learn the truth, about us… So, as your King,” Jon bragged in jest, earning a weak smile, “It is my command that _we_ will wait as well, for whatever truth Sam wrote in those letters… At least until you’ve recovered your strength enough to leave the North.”

“It seemed so important to Sam…” she replied, and Jon nodded heavily. “Can we really just… put it off, for weeks?”

He thought on it for a while, trying to remember exactly what Sam had said to him, when he gave him the letter. It seemed a lifetime ago, not a week…

“It wasn’t pressing enough for Sam to tell us in person, before the Long Night,” Jon decided. “And he never told me to open it straight away, after the Great War. And I think…” Jon resolved, squeezing her hand and offering a tired smile, “that few weeks of rest… from war, secrets, and politics, will do us both good.”

Daenerys stared at him a while, then slipped the key between the folds of her gown, out of sight. She gave him a timid smile, and he saw on her the same nervous relief, to have finally acknowledged the mysterious letters Sam had given to them.

It was some comfort, to know they would face that truth together, whatever it was, and more comforting still to know that it would wait a little longer.

***

A knock came, Daenerys called to enter. In came Tyrion and Missandei, both looking considerably brighter after a full day of rest, and more food than they could ever have ever managed to eat, in that time.

“You both look better,” Daenerys said pleasantly, still seated before the hearth in the Lord’s Chamber, next to Jon.

“Likewise, Your Graces,” Tyrion replied jovially, “We came to explain the events we witnessed, at Castle Cerwyn.”

Tyrion went on to describe the whole of their ordeal, pointedly not looking at Jon whenever Sansa was involved with the grim tale, which, Daenerys found, was often.

Tyrion explained how Sansa had abandoned them as soon as they arrived; how Varys had sent one of his Little Birds only just in time, allowing Tyrion to bear witness to her treachery. Tyrion explained how they had been fed for three days, by Varys’ Little Birds, until Sansa posted guards at their door _‘for their protection…’_

No food came after that, but that which was brought by Sansa herself, and they had burned every scrap of it, for fear of poison. They were a half-day past running out of their rationed water, when Jon and Rhaegal arrived at last, along with Arya, who had killed their door guards and freed them.

“Your Grace,” Tyrion said in a conclusive way, “We would never have returned to you, if not for the brilliant wit of Lady Missandei. As… my _last_ act, as your Hand,” Tyrion removed the Hand’s pin from his breast, and held it tenderly in both his hands, “I advise that you appoint her, in my stead.”

Tyrion passed the pin over to the Queen, and Daenerys looked at Missandei, who looked no less surprised than she felt.

“You’re… resigning,” Daenerys said, slowly taking the pin from him, “Why?”

“Not because I want to,” Tyrion admitted, folding his arms behind, “but because I should. For one thing, Westeros despises me and my family, for good reason. The common people would rally to see a commoner as your Hand…” The logic he offered did not sound half as genuine as what came next, “Lady Missandei is smarter than I am, and more deserving of the position. She speaks seventeen _more_ languages than I do… She’s prettier… and taller,” Tyrion jested weakly, then turned to look proudly on Missandei, “She has never failed you, not once. Not like I have.”

Daenerys blinked back the sting that came, to remember which failure Tyrion spoke of. _Viserion…_ who had died as a result of Tyrion’s suggestion to obtain proof, to convince Cersei to send aid. _Viserion,_ who had died… for nothing.

The Queen looked to Missandei. “What do you think?”

“Your Grace, I… cannot deny I have aspired to the position,” it almost sounded like an acceptance, but something in Missandei’s voice gave her pause. “But no matter what Lord Tyrion would say, I could _never_ have kept us alive in Castle Cerwyn without his help…”

There was more, Daenerys knew, but Missandei glanced at Tyrion and Jon, hesitant to go on.

“Please leave us,” Daenerys said, and Jon and Tyrion obliged at once.

When they were gone, Daenerys nodded to the seat next to her, and Missandei sat gratefully, her shoulders slumping with some burden. “Go on,” Daenerys encouraged.

“Grey Worm offered to marry me, this morning,” Missandei ducked a nervous smile down.

“But… that’s _wonderful_ news!” Daenerys said, taking her hand. “But… I’d thought that the Naathian had no concept of marriage?”

“Neither one of us could be exactly called _native_ , in Naath,” Missandei replied sagely, and hesitated to say, “…Your Grace, when I left for Castle Cerwyn, I did not think I would ever see him again.”

Daenerys looked down, and swallowed her sadness to realize what Missandei had been trying to say, all this time.

“I thought at first that he would die, and then I thought that we would both die,” Missandei said, “far apart from each other, and… far away from home. When your war is won, and your throne reclaimed, we would ask you to marry us… and then, if… if we may…”

“You will leave my service, and return to the East, together,” Daenerys finished for her, with all the warmth she could manage. Gladness for Missandei, and sorrow for herself wrested for control on her face.

“Leave your service?” Missandei asked, shocked, and shook her head. “ _Never._ You _must_ know, Your Grace, that just because we would leave your _country_ , that does not mean we would leave your service, your counsel, or your friendship…” Missandei took her hand and smiled. “Not _ever_.”

“Thank you…” Daenerys whispered, and swallowed. “I… suppose I can visit you easily enough,” she said, wishing her voice would not catch.

“A dragon _does_ make for an even Narrower Sea,” Missandei replied, and the two shared a short, teary laugh.

“Where will you go, in Essos?” Daenerys asked.

“We don’t know yet…” Missandei replied, smiling nervously, but relaxing more by the moment, “We both prefer cities, to the country. We were hoping you might be able to help us choose. We both want to help protect the peace you built, in the East.”

“The peace that _we_ built,” Daenerys corrected. “…What about Meereen?”

“Meereen, Your Grace?”

Daenerys nodded, sighed. “The Meereenese are failing to choose their own leader by majority vote. There are _hundreds_ of hands grasping for power, and the people don’t feel strongly enough about any of them to choose. The Second Sons are holding the peace, for now, but…”

Daenerys left the rest unsaid. Missandei knew well enough; if stable, unquestionable rule did not return to Meereen, and soon… the ancient city would return to bloodshed and slavery, as it had for centuries on centuries.

“And… what would you have me do, in Meereen?” Missandei asked, and Daenerys almost laughed. The woman was doubtlessly keen enough to know the answer, but too polite, and too humble to guess at it.

“Whatever you wanted, I expect,” Daenerys replied coyly, “You could live in peace, never work another day, and your children’s children still would never want for anything… _Or,_ ” Danerys added, “you could do what _Queens_ do. And rule.”

“Truly, Your Grace?” Missandei breathed.

“Yes,” Daenerys laughed, “But only if you would choose it… Your Grace,” she added with a wicked grin. The Eastern Lady laughed, covering her face with her hands, nodding.

“Missandei of Naath,” Daenerys said importantly, “I name you Queen of Meer-”

“Not yet!” Missandei laughed, pushing her hands out as if to block the words, and she laughed again. “Please, Daenerys, I must at least _speak_ to Grey Worm first, before I accept…”

“Go then,” Daenerys chuckled, “Go and tell your King the good news.”

Missandei nodded, beaming, but stayed where she sat. “Before I go, I feel I should tell you about Lady Jonelle.”

“Cley’s sister?”

“Yes, Your Grace, though I do not think she would call _herself_ that, before anything else. Jonelle is… quite fond of you. I believe, in the Common Tongue, you would call her a _fan_. She reminds me of you, in many ways. She has no family living, no home to return to…”

Daenerys nodded, not sure what deep and private thought Missandei was keeping to herself on the matter.

“Tell Lady Jonelle I will meet with her here, as soon as she is able,” Daenerys instructed. Missandei smiled and bowed. As the Eastern Lady left, she ushered Jon and Tyrion back through the door.

***

Tyrion and Jon waited silently outside, while Daenerys and Missandei spoke. If his mouth was motionless, his mind raced, and Tyrion wondered what the Queen would ask of him－ if _anything_ _－_ now that he had resigned from his position as Hand. Tyrion bit his tongue, and did not allow himself to ask Jon his thoughts on the matter.

Whatever he would do, Tyrion only hoped it would keep him as close to Daenerys as he was used. The idea of returning to Casterly Rock as the man who murdered Tywin Lannister was more than a little daunting… Tyrion had already decided that he would not return home, not unless his Queen commanded it, and could not be dissuaded. If that happened… _Well_ , _perhaps Jaime would be able to come back with me,_ Tyrion thought. If Jaime was no longer a Lannister, he might still be allowed to return to Casterly Rock. _Free men make their own choices, after all… and_ _Daenerys always did have a forgiving nature…_

The door opened, interrupting his musings on any number of potential futures he might face. Jon went straight inside while Tyrion waited. He smiled, and nearly wept to see Missandei looking so cheerful as she passed him by.

“Lady, Missandei,” Tyrion said bravely, “I trust you already know how worthy you are, to your new position, but… I still wanted to be the first to congratulate you.” He put his hand forward.

Missandei smiled at him, quite _mysteriously_ , unless Tyrion’s read on her was wrong… but she only took his hand, thanked him in earnest, and moved along without a word. Casting an odd look at her back, Tyrion turned and pushed through the door.

Jon had already returned to his seat beside the Queen, near the hearth. Both looked expectant, waiting for him. Tyrion hoped again, near to _praying_ that his new position would keep him as close at hand. The idea of not _being there_ to see, to _help_ Jon and Daenerys Targaryen build the new world had begun to make him nauseous…

“Tyrion Lannister,” Daenerys said gravely, drawing his gaze up. The Queen looked seriously on him, her hands folded over her lap. “Do you swear to serve me, to serve your King, and to uphold the integrity of the Seven Kingdoms, to the best of your ability?”

“I… I do,” Tyrion vowed, confused.

“And do you swear,” Daenerys asked, “above all other oaths, to serve and protect the people of Westeros from corruption, greed, and all other abuses they may incur, be they from man or woman, Lord or Lady… Queen, or King?”

“I do,” Tyrion vowed.

Daenerys nodded and unfolded her hands; one reached out, and offered the Hand’s pin of office to him.

“Then, I believe you dropped this,” she said, her lips twinging at the edges.

He hesitated to take it, until he met her eye again. Tyrion took the Hand’s pin, gazed at it a moment, fixed it over his breast, and nodded proudly.

“I’m sorry about Varys,” Daenerys said softly, “I should have trusted him sooner. Varys died in my service… and I was almost certain he would betray me.”

Tyrion smiled, despite his grief. “Varys would have thought you a vainglorious fool to trust him before the war was won... We will have to appoint a new Master of Whispers, someone who can manage his network before it falls into the wrong hands.”

“I believe that is what I appointed such a competent Hand for,” the Queen replied with a tired smile. “Put together a list for me; anyone you think may suit the position, and…” Daenerys paused, glanced at Jon, “…ask Arya, if she would be interested.”

Tyrion assured he would, and inquired if there was anything else he could do for her.

“Tomorrow morning, _after_ you have rested to your content,” Daenerys added sternly, “send word to every Hold in Westeros of our marriage. Offer all the usual rewards, for those who would join our fight against Cersei, and make mention of the justice that our King brought to Lord Cerwyn.”

Tyrion nodded, bowed, and turned to leave. “Thank you,” the Queen said hurriedly, before he could turn.

Tyrion gave his reply in perfect, practiced High Valyrian, delighting in the smile it brought her.

“It is my honor to serve the Breaker of Chains.”


	42. The Mad Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Three weeks after the Great War, Cersei still sits the Iron Throne. Qyburn makes a discovery, and a decision. Ellaria Sand offers Cersei some advice._

Alone atop the Iron Throne, with Ser Gregor at her back, Cersei scowled at the red-gold of the Great Hall’s gilded doors, wondering when they would open with news, dreading it. The Goldcloaks, and everyone else in the City besides Qyburn, knew perfectly well there was only one reason to disturb her. Captain Strickland was an efficient man, and knew her command. Unless there were dragons over the Capitol, the doors to the Great Hall would remain shut, and the sentence of death would come to any man who claimed exception.

As long as those doors remained shut, they were safe. Her left hand was draped delicately over the bump at her waist, and if she did not press too firmly, Cersei often allowed herself to forget that the bump was only a balled linen wrap. 

Even Euron, for all his idiocy, would figure out with time that his little Prince was nothing more than a fantasy, but Cersei meant to have Euron dead long before that. For now, he was away, pillaging ships and gang pressing the crews on the Narrow Sea. For now, she was alone. Blessedly alone with her Prince, and Ser Gregor. 

While her left hand cradled her waist, her right was balled tight into a fist, around the delaminating remains of a letter, arrived three weeks ago. It was illegible by now, but she recalled every damnable word upon it from memory.

_ From Lord Varys of Lys, Master of Whispers _

_ To Cersei Lannister, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, _

_ Your Grace,  _

_ I beg your forgiveness, and implore your trust in my final moments. _

_ The Targaryen Usurper is all that her father was and more. Her viciousness knows no end, her thirst for brutality cannot be quenched by all the fire in the world. All her subjects save those closest to Daenerys see her as a kind, merciful, and gracious Queen, but make no mistake; the only mercy to her is the mercy of dragons…  _

_ The Great War is won, and I know Daenerys Stormborn will not hesitate to march her armies South, though I expect she will make little use of her soldiers, upon reaching the Capitol. She will use the soldiers not to invade King’s Landing, but to surround it; Tyrion knows the ins and outs of the Capitol well, and there will be no escape. After the city is secured, the dragons will return King’s Landing to the dirt. _

_ I understand you may be skeptical to receive this news, from me of all people, but if it serves you any consolation, know that I have little to gain from my treachery. I will be dead long before this letter reaches you. For all my time in Westeros, I have thought and acted only for the interest of the Common People, and I regret nothing. While I hold no delusions about your indifference for the rabble, I admit freely that... indifference is far preferable to the unchecked rage of the Last Targaryen.  _

_ Queen of the ashes is better than none. Your survival is the only hope for Westeros. All her life, Daenerys has wanted only one thing; to cast down “the Usurpers,” and reclaim her throne. Let the Capitol fall to smoke and ruin. There will be nothing left of it, when the dragons are done. _

_ She is coming for you. Get out, while you still can.  _

_ Yours, in apology, _

_ Varys of Lys. _

“He advises me to run,” Cersei scoffed again to Ser Gregor, who said nothing. An arrogant lecher, she thought, and one that the world was well rid of. “He expects me to abandon my throne, so that foreign  _ whore  _ can walk right in and take it?” Her laugh echoed in the empty hall.  _ Did he think I would listen to him, _ she wondered, _ in exchange for information on obvious battle strategy? _

Cersei stroked the bump as her waist lovingly. “No,” she insisted.  _ A Lioness does not run away; she chases her prey down and rips them to pieces. _ “No, I will not,” Cersei told Ser Gregor, who offered his usual nothing in reply. How many times must she repeat herself, before he would deign a response? 

She scowled, and turned her glare on him. “Will you not speak to your Queen?” Cersei demanded, and Ser Gregor only looked at her with those terrible, mottled gray eyes. Gregor said nothing. 

“You disgust me,” she informed him, as if commenting on his garb. _If only I could send him away… send those terrible, monstrous eyes away from me..._ _But then who would protect us?_ Cersei pressed her hand against her waist, and the cloth bulged against her thumb. _Where is Jaime…_ If the Great War was won, why had he not returned? Why had he not written?

“Where is Qyburn?” Cersei demanded, still half-expecting Gregor to answer her. 

As if in reply, Qyburn’s usual side-door flew open, and the man hastened to kneel before her, puffing. “I trust you have a very good reason for your lateness,” Cersei inquired, and smiled when Ser Gregor put a hand on his sword.

“That is for Your Grace to decide,” Qyburn said in a rush. “I’ve found recent success in my laboratory, and I did not want to visit you without a proper analysis of my results,” Qyburn cast his eyes away, “It is easier, Your Grace, that I show you. If I may stand?”

The Queen stared at him, then allowed his request with a half-raised hand from the armrests of the Iron Throne, and Qyburn stood. The disgraced former-Maester pulled from his robes a leather pouch, with cord laced around the top. Unbinding the cord, Qyburn smiled wickedly to himself.

He rolled up one sleeve and dipped his opposite hand into the pouch. Pooled in his palm was a thick clear jelly, which the man smeared entirely over his forearm.

Cersei watched him warily as Qyburn moved to the nearest brazier. With a grin cast at her, the Maester plunged his arm into the fire, and held it there.

She smiled, and leaned forward in her throne to watch more carefully. Qyburn’s arm was wrapped in the flames of the brazier, but the Maester showed not the slightest twinge of pain or discomfort. 

“I call it Ceasefire,” Qyburn said proudly, “I could hold my arm in here another hour, before it would start to itch. Another hour, and it would begin to peel, as a bad sunburn. Another hour, give or take, and the Ceasefire seems to lose all efficacy at once.” 

“Three hours,” Cersei confirmed, and Qyburn nodded. She could have cried, she was so relieved. “What does it cost to make?”

“The preparation is complicated, but only in terms of chemistry. The  _ ingredients  _ are primarily water, and a variety of salts, of which Your Grace has already generously supplied in ample quantity, in pursuit of my research.” 

Cersei smiled. “And what of our army?” she asked sweetly.

Qyburn’s face fell, and he pulled his arm from the fire, folded both politely in front. “In that regard, Your Grace, I have had no success. Whatever power drives the true reanimation of the dead, I... cannot replicate it.” 

“You told me,” she said slowly, “that you could build an army of dead men, loyal only to the Crown.” 

“I do not wish to correct Your Grace, but I only ever said that it might be possible.”

Cersei stared at him, itching to summon Ser Gregor forward. If there were more than one pouch worth of Ceasefire, she might have. _Is it insolence, or idiocy,_ she wondered, _that_ _allows him to express no desire to correct me, as he does just so?_

“You will prepare as much Ceasefire as you are able, and deliver it to me. How long will it take?” Cersei glanced at the door again, conspicuously aware of the letter clutched in her hand. Varys’ slimy voice slid through her thoughts.  _ The Dragon Queen will not hesitate to march her armies South… She is coming for you. _

“This quantity alone took twelve hours,” Qyburn replied. “To produce as much possible, with the materials I already possess… Perhaps a week?” Qyburn guessed.

Cersei’s hand tightened, and the letter clutched in it tore softly in a new spot. “What news of the Targaryen Usurpers?”

Qyburn’s mouth twisted. “They have been surprisingly difficult to track, Your Grace. The first rumor of dragons in the South came from Horn Hill, three days ago. Since then I’ve heard rumors of dragons in every Kingdom. They seem to be working separately, and I’m afraid the noble Houses are... scrambling, to ally themselves with the Usurpers,” Qyburn informed her, keeping his tone carefully neutral. “So far including House Arryn, of the Vale, and House Tully, of the Riverlands.”

“I am well aware of  _ which  _ Houses rule  _ which  _ territories,” Cersei snapped. 

“Of course, my apologies. As it stands, Dorne seems to be the only Kingdom without any Houses swearing allegiance to the Usurpers. Your Grace... it  _ may  _ behoove us to have a contingency plan. If the great, noble, and lesser Houses continue to pledge fealty to the Targaryens, at the current rate...”

“Enough,” Cersei hissed, and Qyburn shut his mouth. “Is there any word from Jaime?” 

_ When... _ Cersei wondered,  _ when will he come back? He kept his bloody fool’s “oath” and fought the Great War... alongside that monstricity, from Tarth.  _

It was hardly the first time Jaime had stormed off, on some grand, self-righteous venture, but never for this long. Weeks on weeks, and Cersei had expected him back by now, or at least word from him about the Enemy’s plans.

The Maester’s pale face bleached before her eyes. “Only… rumors, Your Grace…”

“ _ What _ rumors?” Cersei demanded.

“Ser Jaime has not left Winterfell, Your Grace… but I have heard no mention that he remains a prisoner. There are rumors that he has been serving among their soldiers… if my reports are accurate, it seems he has… joined them.”

“Get out,” Cersei hissed. “You have work to do. First and foremost, repairing the apparent  _ holes  _ in your spy network.” 

“Your Grace, there is more,” Qyburn began.

“ _ Leave _ .” 

Ser Gregor stepped to her side. The old man stared at the Mountain a while, then sighed. “At once, Your Grace.” Qyburn bowed and shuffled off. Cersei and Ser Gregor trailed his path with their eyes, until Qyburn shut his usual door behind him. 

Qyburn did not return for their evening council. After finding his laboratory empty, Cersei searched his chamber. The doors to his barren wardrobe hung open, and drawers were pulled half-out, as bare as the wardrobe. 

With a shuddering breath, Cersei gathered her skirts and hastened to the dungeons. Down the spiraling stair, past all known and rumored levels of the Red Keep’s dungeons, to the bottommost level where Cersei kept her dearest prisoners. 

Pulling Ellaria Sand’s door open, Cersei was pleased to find that the smell of the Dornishwoman’s daughter had lessened some. The dried flesh on her bones had been all but picked clean by the vermin. Kicking an arm bone aside, Cersei knelt before Ellaria and pulled the gag from her mouth. Ellaria stared at her through her usual narrowed eye.

“Jaime has abandoned me,” Cersei gagged, choking on the words. “He joined with the Usurper, and I  _ know  _ it’s because he loves that...  _ beastly  _ Tarth wench. He loves  _ her  _ more than me. What’s... what’s wrong with me?” Cersei begged, tears spilling suddenly from her eyes. 

She cupped the Dornishwoman’s face gently in her hands, and Ellaria stared in wide-eyed silence. “The other Houses are  _ throwing  _ themselves to the Usurpers… What do I  _ do _ , Ellaria?” 

The Sand Snake only looked at her. She seemed more frightened than Cersei had ever seen her. Usually, when the Queen came to discuss her secrets with her favorite prisoner, the Sand Snake gave her nothing, just the occasional, contemptuous glare. It was refreshing to see some  _ concern  _ from her, for once, but she needed more than concern right now.

“What do I do?” Cersei demanded again, but the woman only stared. “Every army in Westeros besides Dorne is all but spent, but… if I can get Dorne on my side,” Cersei whispered, brushing her hand over Ellaria’s face, “I can still win this war… What must I do? Tell me!” She shook the woman’s face. “Tell me what to do, and I will  _ free  _ you, I swear it!” 

Ellaria ducked her head and laughed suddenly, a breathy chuckle that set her dark eyes alight, when she raised them again. “You die,” she offered, as if it were obvious. 

Cersei wrenched a thin dagger from her waist belt and plunged it into Ellaria’s neck with a short scream. The woman’s eyes bulged, and the Sand Snake twisted herself, driving the dagger farther along her throat, then spat a mouthful of blood in her face. 

Recoiling, Cersei collapsed back, wiping the red spatter over her skin. Ellaria pitched to one side, choking on what had not already poured to the dusty stone. Eyes alight with a mother’s love, she gazed at the skeleton across the room, and died with a grateful smile. 

There was blood all over the ground, on her face, on her hands… Cersei sank even lower to the stone, clutching herself, and screamed. 


	43. Horn Hill (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sam and Gilly arrive to Horn Hill. Jon and Daenerys take rest in the North, and receive a raven from Sam._

The carriage rolled over the last hillside, and Sam was home. The pale, squared faces of Horn Hill were lit to soft red in the afternoon light. Flat sandstone, interlaced with arching pillars greeted him from atop the great, rounded hill for which it was named. Holding Little Sam up so he could see, Sam pointed out along the road all his favorite reading spots, from when he was young. The rock fall, the crooked tree, the ruined fort… Gilly laughed when he told Little Sam about “falling down that ravine, there.” 

Sam looked fondly on Gilly, enjoying her laugh to its last note. Taking a breath, Sam kept the promise he had made to himself two weeks ago, when he left the North. 

“Gilly,” Sam breathed, pulling her delighted smile from the carriage window, “From the first moment I met you, I knew you would be important to me for the rest of my life… and…” he took a breath, “...I want you to… I mean, will you marry me?” 

Her smile fell, and Sam’s stomach dropped. “You’re the Lord of Horn Hill, now,” Gilly said soberly, “If I marry ya, that makes me the Lady of Horn Hill… Don’t you think your people’ll think you mad, for marryin’ a Wildling?” 

“I think I could give a bloody rat’s arse what they think about you, or me!” Sam laughed, and bounced Little Sam on his knee to distract from his cursing.

“Are you sure?” Gilly asked, and Sam nodded once. “Then… I will,” Gilly laughed, leaning over to plant a long kiss on him. They held hands until the first view of Horn Hill vanished behind another rolling hillside. The carriage plucked along for another hour, and Sam grew itchy in his wools to be done with it, to be home with his family... and to discover if there was any word waiting for him, from Jon.

The news of the Great War could be good or bad, but if Sam arrived home, and there was no news at all… Sam shuddered, grateful to see the shadow of the gate pass briefly over his carriage, which rolled along another hundred feet or so, and stopped.

Mother and Talla were awaiting them, holding their skirts high and hastening to close the last of the distance between themselves and the carriage. Forgetting his fears for a moment, Sam waved and almost broke the carriage door, to have it open as fast as he could manage.

“My boy!” Lady Melessa Tarly cried, pulling Sam’s face to her lips and laying three kisses on his cheek. His mother pulled back, but kept his hands. “My _Lord…_ ” she said thickly, “Welcome home.” 

Talla had already pulled Gilly aside, and Sam’s younger sister squealed suddenly. “You didn’t tell me you got engaged!” Talla accused, throwing herself into his arms. 

He thudden on the impact. “Well it only happened about five minutes ago!” Sam said in his defense. Sam’s mother joined the embrace, and then Gilly. All their warmth almost made him forget the chilly wind, which still nagged at his thoughts.  _ It could be a spring wind…  _ Sam thought hopefully,  _ or it could be from the Night King’s Storm... _

After many fond words, spoken in rushed voices in the courtyard of Horn Hill, Sam insisted that they all retire inside, from the wind. His family accompanied him, for the walk. 

“You have letters,” his mother said importantly as they moved through the halls. “From the North… and everywhere else.” 

_ So there is some news, at least… _ Sam hastened his step to the Lord’s chambers, striding beside his mother, while Talla and Gilly followed just behind. He had decided he would not tell his family about the Army of the Dead unless he had a very good reason to. 

“Did you read any of them?” Sam asked his mother.

“You think I survived your father as long as I did, by rifling through his letters?” Melessa asked rhetorically, and Sam frowned. 

“He really was terrible, wasn’t he?” His mother nodded in a sad reply. 

“But he’s gone now… Every last bit of him, blown away on the wind,” Melessa added with a tense laugh. “Which means... very good things, for our family.” Mellessa finished in a tight voice, and took his hand as she walked, but would not look at him. Talla had stopped prattling about the wedding to listen, and the family finished to walk to the Lord’s Chambers in silence. 

_ I was right not to mourn him, _ Sam decided, as Randyll Tarly’s widow and daughter both kept silent on his death, but he wondered how they felt about Dickon, who had been burned right alongside his father... Sam thought it an unkind reminder for his mother to ask, and said instead that he loved her, and he was happy to be home. 

The door to the Lord’s Chambers approached him, and behind the doors, news from the North. Sam did not slow his step to open it, nor to approach the desk. To one side were two scrolls; one bore the Direwolf seal, the other bearing the Queen’s Hand’s seal, palm forward, wreathed in flame. 

On the other side, a pile of scrolls bearing seals of every color, from what seemed to be every great and noble Southern House, and most of the Northern ones as well. Sam snatched up Jon’s letter and broke the seal.

“We’ll leave you two alone,” his mother said, brushing past Talla.

“So happy you’re home!” Talla said gaily, backing away. “Supper’s ready when you are,” she told him, shutting the door behind her. “I love youuu,” she sang through the crack.

_ Sam, _

_ The Great War is won… _

“Oh,” Sam moaned, dropping the letter and pressing his hands over his face. He hit the chair heavily, faint from his relief, and laughed into his hands. “Oh Gods, Jon,” Sam moaned, pulling his hadns away. “Oh, I knew you could do it,” Sam breathed. Gilly shared his mirth, planted a long kiss on his cheek before she excused herself to wash. 

His cheeks aflame with joy, Sam read the rest of the scroll, detailing the victory, assuring they were well, and that they would speak more on it soon.

_...for now, we remain in the North, shoveling shit until we march South.  _

_ Jon _ .

Sam chuckled.  _ Shoveling shit  _ was an inside jest from their time together in the Night’s Watch, and it meant Jon and Daenerys were taking rest.  _ Gods know they need it,  _ Sam thought. Setting the letter aside, he rushed to the window and threw open the shutters. The wet wind was chilly, chilly enough to have preoccupied him the whole journey South, but now he could see the sun shining proudly through the pearly overcast.. He sucked in the clean spring air for a while, then returned to read the second letter, bearing the flaming Hand of Tyrion Lannister. 

Sam skipped the formal introductions and dove right to the meat.. 

_ “It will please you greatly, I’m sure, to learn that Jon Snow, formerly known as the Bastard of Winterfell…” _ Sam furrowed his brow, confused,  _ “was taken by Queen Daenerys Targaryen, in a lawful marriage ceremony…”  _

“Oh Gods…”

_ “And therefore, by the laws of Westeros, Jon Snow has been renamed in sight of the Old Gods as King Jon Targaryen, the first of his name…” _

“Oh…” Sam moaned, running a hand hard through his hair. “Oh, you bloody coward,” Sam cursed himself, skimming the last of the letter, formally thanking Sam for his loyalty. 

“Oh,  _ Gods _ ! What have I done?” Sam pulled a fresh parchment from his desk, and scrawled as fast as his hand would allow.

“ _ Jon. Are you mad? You can’t just go marrying anyone you want! You hardly know Daenerys! You don’t even know that-- _ ” Sam groaned, crumpled the parchment up, cast it aside, and started over. 

“ _ Jon. Did you even read my letter? I told you to read it after you won the Great War, but I should’ve known you would bloody put it off as long as you could-- _ ” Sam moaned again, balled the parchment up and cast it aside. He wrote Jon’s name on top and stalled, staring blankly at the parchment.

It was impossible. If Sam wrote the truth about Jon’s parents, tied it to a raven, and sent the bird to fly hundreds of miles North… Sam shuddered at the thought of who might intercept it. Even if he wrote, and only implored Jon to read his  _ bloody  _ letter, then Sam risked exposing the letters— and their contents— to any number of prying eyes.

“Sam!”

“I didn’t  _ know _ !” Sam shouted, lurching up from his seat. “Oh, Gods,  _ Talla _ !” Sam gasped, pressing his hand to his pounding chest. “Talla, I’m the Lord of Horn Hill now! You can’t just sneak into my chambers whenever you feel like it!”

“You are my long lost and  _ beloved  _ brother,” she corrected him, crossing her arms, “and you were taking too long. Also, I knocked, twice, and called your name three times, my  _ Lord _ ... What are you doing?” She asked curiously.

“I need to write Jon,” Sam replied seriously.

“You mean  _ King _ Jon?” Talla replied with an easy grin.  _ Oh, Gods forgive me…  _ “I can’t believe your old Night’s Watch friend is--”

“How did you know that?” Sam demanded. “Did you read my letters?” 

“Of course not!” Talla replied, “ _ Everyone _ knows. They sent letters all over the country, announcing their marriage! People are  _ so  _ excited,” Talla gushed, “everyone  _ loves _ a good wedding! Do you think I’ll get to meet her, the Dragon Queen, I mean? Oh,  _ Sam… _ ” Talla clasped her hands and stepped quickly to his side. “I can’t believe you  _ know  _ them! I didn’t expect to see it in my life, but people are starting to  _ hope _ again... Sam? Are you alright?”

“No! ... _yes_ ,” Sam replied. “I’m fine, Talla, I just… I need to _do_ something,” he said, helpless. _What’s wrong is_ _Jon married his aunt!_ Sam wanted to scream it, but instead he pressed his lips together as hard as he could, until his teeth bit the backs of his lips, and hung his head. 

Talla pursed her lips and looked at him, while Sam tapped his quill anxiously, ignoring the pooling ink as it leaked onto his desk. “What’s wrong with you?” Talla demanded.

“Nothing! I just… I need to tell Jon something… without telling anyone bloody else who could manage to intercept a raven’s scroll! There’s something he has to know, and no-one else can know. No-one,” Sam repeated seriously, “Not you, not mother… not even Gilly,” Sam admitted. 

“So… if you can’t write him, then invite him here,” Talla said, as if it were obvious. “I mean, he of all people has to be there for your wedding, right? Oh, my Gods,  _ Sam _ ! He could even officiate! What color gown are you thinking, by the way, for Gilly? I think she looks  _ daring  _ in red--” 

Sam lurched towards his sister and twirled her in a tight hug. He planted a kiss on her cheek, and she laughed, wiping it off.

“Definitely red… or white,” Sam offered. Gilly’s dark hair and pale skin were ravishing in red, and white on her reminded Sam of the endless snowy North, where he had found her. “I’ll be right down to supper. I just have to write this first.” 

“I’ll wait,” Talla said, sitting on his desk and swinging her legs freely. “I always wanted to learn how to send ravens,” she added. 

Sam wrote the formal invitations quickly, then a duplicate, and flew out of his chambers. Talla followed him up the winding stairs, to the rookery. The birds were not familiar with him, and went for his fingers, but it only gave Sam the chance to show Talla how to handle unwieldy ravens. For the task, Sam chose the two finest looking birds that Horn Hill had to offer, and let Talla hold them as he bound each one with a scroll. 

“Do you think they’ll come?” Talla asked him as he sent the birds off. Sam nodded. 

“I know they will,” Sam replied, and turned with his sister to attend supper. A final glance over his shoulder showed the birds had already vanished to the Northern horizon. 

***

After three weeks of rest, Daenerys felt stronger and more at peace than she had in years, and she credited much of her rejuvenation to her husband. Jon had hardly left her side, since they had announced their marriage, and everywhere they went together, people greeted each of them with fondness, respect, and admiration in equal measure. 

Part of her wondered if they ought to go South at all. The Northern spring, though not without chill, had come on quickly. The snow had almost gone, and fresh shoots sprung up everywhere. Best of all, she loved the sound of water. Everywhere she went, there was the gentle trickling of melting snow and ice, a sweet and constant reminder of the spring they had fought for and won together. 

Tyrion, Ser Davos, and all the rest of their advisers had been working all daylight hours in their interest, and for the most part, their only responsibilities were to approve letters that Tyrion and Missandei wrote to the Westerosi Lords and Ladies. With ample rest, companionship, and free time to herself, Daenerys’ strength had returned more quickly than she imagined it could, after what she had been through. 

She walked constantly, at first just around the Castle, and then, as she improved, outside the walls of Winterfell and into the Wolfswood. Among the pines, sparkling with dew more often than not, Ghost would join them. Sometimes the white wolf walked just beside Jon, and other times they merely caught his glance from far off, before his pale red eyes vanished again into the brush. 

Two weeks after the Great War was won, the dragonriders took to the skies together in the early morning. Jon showed her all the beauty the North had to offer. They landed upon South-facing mountain sides, bursting with fresh blossoms of every color, which Jon surprised her to know all by name: entire fields of purple lupines, golden clusters of Northern poppies, and mountain avens, like a white star with a twinkling yellow eye. Daenerys brushed, as they flew past, the icy waters of a fall that Jon said only flowed in spring. 

There was more color and beauty in the North than she had imagined there could be, and she found the people refreshingly direct, and surprisingly colorful themselves, now that the Queen had come to know them better. Even her grief had paled in the light of the Northern spring. 

Often and harshly, she missed Ser Jorah, most often when she glanced over her shoulder to catch his eye, and found he was not there… But to think of Jorah was as much a weight on her heart as it was a relief, ever since Lyanna Mormont had offered him posthumous pardon for his crimes, and brought his ashes home, to Bear Island. If Ser Jorah had ever hoped for anything, it was to return home, welcomed by his family, with honor… and despite all likelihood and errors past, her loyal Knight had done just so. 

Even Viserion had been lain to rest... the people had pulled his mangled corpse off the Castle wall to lay aways South and West of Winterfell. Without orders, they covered him over with earth and compost. By the next day, impossibly, a thousand fire lilies of yellow, red and gold had sprung from the mound that marked Viserion’s grave, a site the people had come to name Dragon’s Rest. When the sun set, it seemed to set the flowers afire in the dying light.

There were new things for Daenerys, now, as well as the weight of the old. Three weeks ago, Missandei had carried her word to Jonelle Cerwyn, to seek the Queen out, as soon as she was able, and the young Northern Lady had come the very next morning. Straight away, she took a liking to the young Lady, a young and kindred spirit, and had since invited her on many of the walks she took about Winterfell, some with Jon, some with Missandei. 

Today, however, on the morning of her third week of rest, Daenerys had invited Jonelle alone to the Glass Garden of Winterfell. The Garden was near to mythical, in the North, as so few people were allowed to risk proximity to the delicate, priceless panes that were unique to Winterfell Castle.

The guards outside the doors to the Garden nodded familiarly and stepped aside. The Queen swept past them, in a loose gown of charcoal and red, nodding politely. Jonelle mimicked her, and even offered a curtsy with skirts of cream-and silver. As soon as she was through the doors, Jonelle’s poised face broke into one of wonder, and she cast wide gray eyes up and around. 

The Glass Garden was built over a hot spring, and the uniquely pure glass let all the sun through, painting the ceiling with whatever clouds hung above that day. Clustered in groups along a narrow, winding tract, crops were grown and tended year-round, and a warm air hung heavily on the skin. Birds sang in the branches of the fruit trees, dappled with sunlight streaming through the glass panes, and bees buzzed freely between flowers and their wooden boxes.

“It’s beautiful,” Jonelle breathed, laying her hand softly on the delicate glass panes. Daenerys opened her mouth to remind her of Jon’s warning; the delicate, large panes of glass were the very reason so few were allowed to come into the Glass Garden. “There,” Jonelle said, pulling her hand back with a satisfied smile. “I won’t do it again,” she promised. “ _ Don’t _ tell the King.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Daenerys chuckled. For a while, she watched Jonelle stroll between plants, caressing a flower here and there, watching birds flit about. “Do you know what you’ll do,” Daenerys asked, “after Jon and I leave the North?” 

Jonelle’s mouth pursed. “No,” she admitted. “With Cerwyn Hold gone, I don’t think I’m technically a Lady anymore…”

The young girl trailed off, her eyes troubled. Daenerys knew she had no clue what would come next for her. As a young Lady, her entire life had been written out for her: she was born, she had been educated, and one day, after her flowering, she was to be married off to the highest bidder. 

With her Lords dead, and her Hold in ruins, Jonelle had no plan left to her, and no marriages arranged. Daenerys was glad for her. Even if the girl was lost, at least she was free.

“Perhaps I’ll write,” Jonelle said with sudden brightness, taking a large red blossom from where it had fallen on the ground. She offered it to the Queen, and Daenerys grinned, and tucked the bloom into the fold of her braid while Jonelle turned, and apread her arms wide as if to embrace all of the Garden at once. 

“I’d never left Cerwyn Hold before I came here…” Jonelle admitted, “But I’ve got more life experience now, and I’ve always liked writing stories,” she grinned bashfully, “ _ especially  _ ones with happy endings.”

“I expect someone like you could be well-suited to happy endings… Have you thought about moving to the Capitol?” Daenerys asked. “I expect there would be a good audience for you, there. You’re welcome to stay with us, in the Red Keep for as long as you like.”  _ Forever, if you wanted… _ but the Queen was still keeping such thoughts to herself. What a cruel thing it would be, if Daenerys offered Jonelle a home, a family… only for Daenerys to die in the pursuit of the Iron Throne.

“I… yes, I will!” Jonelle breathed, ducking her head. “Only… I can’t. Not until my people are settled, here. They’ve lost  _ everything…  _ their homes and fortunes, everything but their lives. It was  _ my  _ suggestion for King Jon to do what he did,” Jonelle said heavily, “I can’t just leave my people behind, to fend for themselves.”

“I would not risk you coming to the Capitol yet, in any case… This war isn’t over yet. Jon and I can expect only the worst, from Cersei Lannister.” 

Jonelle paused. “When do you expect to leave?” Jonelle asked her, and Daenerys' slow steps halted beneath her feet. The narrow track between sun-dappled crops stretched before her, as well as behind.

“I don’t know,” Daenerys admitted with a half-hearted shrug. “Soon, I expect…” 

_ I could leave today, and be well enough for it…  _ Daenerys thought with a pit in her stomach. She could have left days ago. There was no pain left to her injuries; the grotesque purpling at her waist had faded to yellow, and then back to supple pink. 

“My Ladies,” came Jon’s voice, and Daenerys turned with a surprised smile, which turned nervous to see he was holding a raven’s scroll. “If I may borrow you, love,” Jon said, gesturing with the scroll and looking oddly pleased. 

“Your Grace,” Jonelle said in dismissal, then paused. “Thank you... for everything. I never thought I’d see the Glass Garden of Winterfell, no matter how many times I dreamed about it…” Jonelle cast wide gray eyes around again, absorbing every detail with a grateful sigh, and turned for the door. 

“Remember to practice,” Daenerys called after, in High Valyrian, “Lady Missandei is ready when you are, for your lesson.”

Jonelle grinned and assured she would, in the Mother tongue, then let herself through the door. “She’s something, isn’t she?” Jon asked fondly, and Daenerys nodded. She wondered if the same idea lingered behind his smile, thought and yet unspoken.

“Is that from Sam?” Daenerys asked, glimpsing the broken seal on the scroll he held.

“It is,” Jon said merrily. “He’s asked us to come to Horn Hill and marry him to Gilly, as soon as we can,” he chuckled, “Says he can hardly wait another day, and he wouldn’t want anyone but us to officiate. Seems we’re off to Horn Hill, soon...”

There was no need to wonder what gave his voice the barest pause. Going South meant… going  _ South _ . 

Even if it was, at first, to officiate Sam’s wedding, once dragons were spotted South of Winterfell, there could be no delaying the return to the war for the Seven Kingdoms. And yet, Sam had asked it of them. Such a small request, for such a good and lovely purpose could not simply go ignored... And neither, anymore, could the mysterious letters Sam had written to them, both of which Daenerys had locked away in her Quarthian box, yet unread. 

“When do we leave?” Daenerys asked. 

Jon shrugged, his eyes losing warmth the longer they delayed on speaking of the letter. “Might take a day or two, to prepare our armies for the march South,” he said evasively. 

_ If he will not say it…  _ “We have to read them now, don’t we?” 

Jon nodded with a heavy sigh, and Daenerys offered her arm. “Together?” His dour looked softened, and he took her arm with a comforting nod. 


	44. Horn Hill (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jon and Daenerys learn the truth. Arya and Jon speak alone. Sam and Gilly tend to their duties._

The walk to their chambers passed in quiet, except for the frequent pleasantries the people offered to them. Northmen offered him and his Queen a fondly spoken title; Dothraki pounded their chests and shouted gladly, and Unsullied rapped their spears. 

The King and Queen greeted them in turn, no less fondly, but to teach other, they hardly spoke as they marched dutifully to the Lord’s Chambers, past the door-guards, and shut the door behind. 

Jon had meant to delay a bit longer, if he could, but Daenerys went straight to the bedside drawer and reached deep into the back, where she kept her Quarthian lockbox. The thick steel frame was lacquered with shining colors, and Jon watched tensely as Daenerys slipped the silver chain off her neck, then pulled the key free.

The Quarthian knot, which served as teeth on the small key turned the strange and complicated lock, and the lid popped open easily.

Daenerys flinched, and her hand hesitated, so Jon moved up to her side and pushed the lid the rest of the way. Silently, each took their own letter and broke the seals.

_Jon,_

_I’m so sorry, but I’ve found out who your mother was…_ Jon put a hand to his mouth staggered back. He fell into the chair by the hearth, his face breaking as he read on. 

_“You’ve never been a bastard, Jon. Your mother was Lyanna Stark, and your father was Rhaegar Targaryen.”_

“That’s impossible,” Jon whispered, not noticing if Daenerys replied or not. _My father was Ned Stark..._

_“Ned Stark found Lyanna on her deathbed, in the Tower of Joy, giving birth to you. She named you Aegon Targaryen, and made your father promise to keep you safe from King Robert. To do that, he told everyone he was your father, and that you were his bastard.”_

The letter trembled in his hands. _But he_ was _my father,_ Jon thought angrily, wanting to shout it at Sam.

_“Your brother saw it_ _in his visions, but I have proof. At the Citadel, I transcribed a copy of High Septon Maynard’s personal diary. I left it in my chambers for you, if you don’t believe me._

_Maynard annulled Rhaegar’s first marriage, and then he wrote that the Prince secretly remarried in Dorne, but_ _Maynard_ _never mentions who_ _the Prince_ _married… the date of the marriage would have been when your Aunt Lyanna had been “kidnapped” there by_ _Rhaegar_ _._

_I had to tell you. I didn’t want to, but you know I had to. If it’s any consolation, at all… The Three-Eyed Raven told me that Rhaegar never kidnapped your mother_ _, never raped her_ _._ _Rhaegar_ _loved her, and he loved you._

_I’m so sorry, Jon._

_Sam._

By the time Jon looked up from the letter, Daenerys had given hers to the fire, and turned for the door. “Nera…” Jon said weakly. She did not look at him, but her face shattered in the glimpse he caught before she let herself out. Staring numbly after her, his wife… his Queen… his _aunt…_ Jon waited for the door to shut before he fell to his knees, numb.

_My father…_ it was the only thought his mind would form, and for the first time in his life, Jon did not know who he meant. 

He remembered Howland Reed’s dying words. _“You’re a Targaryen…”_ Jon shuddered; he had assumed the old man had meant by _marriage_ … _“Your father,”_ Reed had choked out, with his last breath. Lord Howland… who had been the only one along with Ned Stark, on reaching the Tower of Joy. 

_No…_ His mind continued to protest, but his heart knew the fact for truth. It all made sense to him then. His connection to Daenerys, to the dragons… the magic, in his blood. The rage that so often overcame him… _“She named you Aegon Targaryen.”_

“Jon?” Flinching, Jon realized Arya was crouching next to him, a hand on his shoulder.

***

Jon only stared at her, a look of blank horror on him that turned her blood cold. The anguish on her brother was worse, now, than when Arya had told him Sansa died a traitor to their family.

“You alright?” Arya asked, despite knowing the answer. “I saw Daenerys leave, just now… she didn’t look… happy.”

Jon shook his head, then looked suddenly at a scrap of parchment clutched in his hand and balled it tight. Pushing her aside, Jon threw the parchment roughly into the fire, and did not turn to face her until the scroll had burned to ash before his eyes. 

“Jon, you’re scaring me…”

“Promise you won’t pry,” Jon demanded, taking a step closer, not meeting her eye. “Promise.” 

“I promise.” 

At that, Jon seemed to deflate, and he sank down into the chair before the hearth. For a long time, the flames danced in his bottomless grey eyes. Moving slowly, as she might around a wounded animal, Arya took the seat next to him, pulled her knees to her chest, and waited. 

“Ned Stark wasn’t my father,” Jon said at last, and Arya heard the lie behind the truth. _Then who is?_ A girl might ask, if she had not promised. 

Even trying not to wonder, Arya could not help but remember Daenerys’ face… The Queen had looked sick, pale and drawn, and she had denied escort, from her guards. Whoever Jon’s father was… it had hurt Daenerys as much as it had Jon. Feeling herself dangerously close to an answer－ which Jon obviously did not want her to have－ Arya halted her wondering at that.

“It doesn’t matter,” Arya said, and Jon looked at her, shocked. “You’re my _brother_... And Ned Stark was our father.” 

Jon stared at her, as if she could not understand what he was saying. It was a helpless, broken look that set her on edge. Arya set her jaw. _Like_ _there’s any secret lineage, any father, dead or alive, who could change who Jon is…_ who Ned Stark had _raised_ him to be…

“You’re being stupid,” Arya decided, and Jon stared as if she were mad. “Your father is the one who raises you,” she explained, “protects you, teaches you right from wrong, and how to swing a sword… Your _father_ took this _shit_ secret to his grave, because he loved you for his own,” Arya realized that she was angry. If Jon no longer saw himself as Ned Stark’s son, did that mean he no longer thought of _her_ , as a _sister_? 

“Don’t you dare, Jon,” Arya warned him darkly, standing. Her fists were balled, tight against her sides, and her voice trembled. “Don’t you _dare_ dishonor our father’s memory by giving all the credit to someone else!”

Jon cast his eyes away a long time, brooding as he stared into the flames. Eventually, he sighed, stood, and put his hands on her shoulders… _just like father used to,_ Arya remembered, and swallowed. 

“You’re right,” Jon whispered, and he almost smiled before he wrapped her into a long hug. “Thank you… Little Wolf,” he added fondly, and went to muss her hair, but Arya caught his wrist and twisted around behind him. With a gentle push, Arya sent Jon pitching forward, towards the door. 

“Go,” she told him. “Daenerys needs her husband, right now.”

His hand was already on the door, but he paused to reply. “I hope you’re right about that,” he said grimly, and pushed through the door without looking back. 

***

Jon knew where to look first. Near to running, he made short work of reaching Sam’s chamber, but he found it empty. Glancing around, he searched for the book Sam had left him, the Septon’s diary, but saw nothing until his eye found the hearth. A singed corner of still-smoking leather was all that remained of the proof Sam had supplied.

He was out the door before he knew where he would go next, and his feet carried him to the Godswood. The ash and cinder from the fiery battle had bled away with the snow, and fresh shoots were springing from the dark, damp earth. There were dainty footprints in the soil, fresh, and coming from the same door he had, and Jon followed them to Bran.

Bran had not moved an inch since the Great War had begun. In his chair, the warg’s eyes were the same unending grey as they had been for three weeks. The tent that had been erected over him, to shield him from the elements, was as motionless as Bran himself, and Jon approached slowly. With a nod, he dismissed the guard posted to watch Bran, and the man moved a ways off, out of earshot.

“Is it true?” Jon asked, knowing he did not have to. And yet, the most stubborn part of him still hoped there would be some proof that this was all some terrible misunderstanding, that Sam had been wrong… 

The Three-Eyed Raven did not twitch; his grey eyes gazed skyward, fixed and motionless. _How long will he be like this?_ Jon wondered, for the hundredth time since the Great War was won. 

“Bran?” Jon tried again, “Lord Raven,” he tried, less certainly. With a sharp sigh, Jon stood again and raised his hand for the guard’s return. The dainty footsteps led away from Bran, towards the Godswood Gate.

The dragons’ cries peeled from the sky, and Jon hastened towards them. From South and West, they flew, and by the time he was through the Gate, they had landed near the grave of their fallen brother. The fire lilies adorning _Dragon’s Rest_ would glow, come sunset, each enormous blossom glowing with a faint and flickering light. At high noon, they did not shine, but the flowers were twice as high, and more thickly grown than any bloom he could name. 

Hastening his step, Jon found Daenerys waiting on the Southern face of the hillside, staring forlornly at the blooms until she caught his eye, and her face hardened. The dragons cried again, and landed to either side of her, and Daenerys turned away, her hand reaching up as Drogon lowered his shoulder. 

***

“Wait!” He called, and despite all her desire to climb up, to fly as far and as quickly as she could, she paused and turned. 

Jon was staring at her, a helpless look on him. _But he’s not Jon, is he…_ _he’s_ _Aegon Targaryen,_ a cruel voice reminded her, and Daenerys flinched to realize it was Viserys’ smug, velvety voice… _The rightful_ _heir to the Iron Throne_ _… your own nephew._ Viserys would have laughed at her misfortune, if he lived. 

Daenerys stared at him, and he approached slowly. _What would he have me say…?_

All her young life, Viserys had filled her head with notions about the Targaryens’ _purity of blood_ , and countless others had made their opinions clear on that Targaryen practice of incestuous marriage. Daenerys herself had once dreaded the idea that Viserys might eventually amass his own army, and force her to be his sister-bride… in that regard, it had been a relief－ or at least a small comfort－ when she had been sold to Khal Drogo.

_I still love him…_ she forced her eye away from his. _I would_ _not_ _have married him, if I did not love him…_ _But I’m not like Cersei,_ Daenerys thought. How many times had she told herself that, and accepted it for truth? _I’m not_ like _Viserys, or_ _any_ _Targaryens who_ _ever_ _forced daughters and sons to marry…_

Daenerys shook her head, unable to speak for all the thoughts pounding in her mind. 

“Daenerys… I don’t _care_ _._ Even if it’s true, I-” 

“It is true,” she insisted, hating how thick her voice came. “You know it as well as I do.”

All this time she had wondered on _the reason_ , and more recently thought it had been _true love… Naive fool,_ she cursed herself. The reason they had felt so connected, so apt to put their trust in one another... The _reason_ that the stranger named Jon Snow had seemed so familiar to her… Why the dragons had been so quick to embrace his touch… It was not love, but blood. _The blood of the dragon flows in his veins…_

Daenerys shook her head. “We share blood... we were born with the same name,” she choked.

“But… I’ve already taken your name! Nera-” 

“Don’t call me that!” 

“Will you just listen to me!” Jon shouted, taking a step forward. Drogon stretched his wings wide, lowered himself, and screamed. Rhaegal lashed out, snapping at Drogon’s neck, baring his fangs with a long _hisssss_. Drogon pulled away with a resentful screech. 

“I am _not_ the man that letter claims I am,” Jon declared. “It took me until now to realize it, but it doesn’t _matter_ who my mother was, or who she loved before I was born!” 

“Your _mother_?” Daenerys demanded, shocked. “Your _father_ was-”

“Eddard Stark!” Jon shouted, and Drogon screamed again, taking a lurching step forward. Jon spared him a worried glance, and went on more quietly, but the anger was still in his voice. “Ned Stark was the man who raised me, and he took this… this Gods-awful _secret_ with him, to his grave! I will stand by him－ and you－ until the day I die, because I love you,” he insisted, “And I can’t lose you like this… not for a name. Not for a _stranger…_ ”

“A stranger,” she scoffed bitterly, and composed her face to the stony mask that the Queen so often wore. “My brother, you mean? _And_ your father,” she said. “You have to face that. No matter what you _feel…_ ” _What we feel,_ she might have said… “I can’t.” 

Daenerys turned away, reaching up towards Drogon. Jon must have run forward, because his hand tightened on hers from behind. “Don’t touch me!”

With a sharp screech, Drogon lurched forward, and knocked Jon five paces back with the lightest brush of his leg. The dragon put himself above Jon… _Aegon Targaryen_ … arched his neck, and roared. The sound surged and echoed in the valleys, and wrent an avalanche to come crashing down one of the closer peaks.

With a final, prolonged hiss, Drogon stepped back, and lowered his shoulder. Daenerys climbed on gratefully, and watched below as Drogon brought her up, higher and higher into the sky. 

On the ground, Jon was already on his feet, gesturing wildly to Rhaegal, but the dragon was backing away, screeching and glancing skyward, his eyes following her and Drogon. With a frustrated scream, Rhaegal leapt, riderless, beat his wings in a clumsy manner, and followed after her.

Pulling her eye from the North, Daenerys faced the endless sky before her, wondering where she would go.

***

It was a week to the day, after Sam sent his wedding invitation North, before he heard the first calls of two dragons above Horn Hill. All morning he had been sorting through letters with Gilly, but when Sam heard the first distant screech, he jumped from his chair and flew to the nearest stairway.

Up the spiraling stair, to the rookery and then to the very edge of the balcony, Sam could not help but smile. The dragons were circling triumphantly over Horn Hill, confirming every rumor of their unimaginable size and splendor. The sun gleamed off their wings, and set their colored frills alight from their dark scales. Each pass brought them a bit nearer. The bells were ringing, a rapid, merry tune which Lord Tarly had insisted ring throughout the city on the arrival of the King and Queen. Watching his Hold below, Sam was proud of his tact; the joyous bells called the people from their homes to gather in droves, pointing gladly at the sky and cheering the coming of the Last Dragons.

Much of the merriment was lost to Sam, wondering if Jon and Daenerys had read his letters yet, and knowing if they were still in the dark, Sam would be forced to tell them in person…

Forcing himself to turn, Sam set the quickest pace he could back to his chambers. Gilly was still at the desk, studying a letter and scrawling notes into a ledger. She did not glance up; when Gilly read, it was as if nothing else existed. She would often become so immersed that she failed to notice anything else around her; including, it seemed, two fully grown dragons descending on Horn Hill.

“Gilly… _Gilly_ , love. They’re here,” Sam breathed as he flew through the doors, straight to his wardrobe. _Do they know yet?_ Sam wondered, his stomach tightening to a knot. “Should I change? How do I look?”

Gilly took a final note and set the letter aside. She grinned at him. “Lordly,” she replied.

Sam turned to the looking glass, appreciating the new garb that Mother and Talla had procured for him. The red-brown leather of his jerkin would have made for a plain cut, if not for the thick strip of dark leather trim, embroidered with green thread, which ran along his shoulders, collar, and down the center of his chest. _I do look Lordly,_ Sam supposed, and felt more himself as he threw his old Night’s Watch cloak over his shoulders.

“Are they marrin’ us today?” Gilly asked, “Talla says my gown won’t be ready till tonight.”

“Best not rush them to anything,” Sam said evasively. “I expect we’ll have some catching up to do… Do you mind, just waiting here a bit? I should probably talk to them alone…” Gilly frowned at him, and Sam lowered his head, fully and painfully aware that she knew.

Not everything, but enough for Gilly to know she was being kept in the dark about Jon and Daenerys. In the week he spent waiting for the calls of dragons over Horn Hill, he had not been able to talk about them for more than a minute without his voice shaking, and trailing off… Each time it had happened, Gilly had given him the same look she was giving him now.

“Alright,” she conceded. “But I shouldn’t _have_ to remind you that there aren’t s’posed to be any secrets, between husbands and wives…”

Sam knelt and took her hand. “Oh, Gilly. I’m sorry love, I am… but, it’s… it’s not my secret to tell.” Sam squeezed her hand, and tried to think of how best to explain. “If you knew what it was, you’d understand why I can’t say anything.”

Gilly sighed, but she must have forgiven him, because she leaned forward to kiss his forehead.

Directly above the Castle walls, the dragons cried out, and he jumped to realize how near they were now. “Thank you,” Sam said, and kissed her hand as he stood. Keeping secrets from Gilly felt even worse, now that she had confronted him about it.

Sam paused at the door and added, “You know… I thank the Gods every day, that you’re mine.”

“You better,” Gilly replied sternly, breaking the seal on another scroll. As she unrolled the parchment, she glanced at him, and spared him a half-smile before she returned her attention to the raven’s scroll.


	45. Horn Hill (III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Daenerys demands a private word with Sam._

Sam puffed, keeping a rapid pace down to the courtyard. He arrived in time to watch the aptly-nicknamed _Winged Shadow_ descend upon the wall. Drogon’s wingspan might have matched the Castle for width, but the dragon landed with impossible ease and set his wings carefully on the ground, allowing the Dragon Queen to climb down off his shoulder. The courtyard shrank as the dragon slipped carefully off the wall and settled himself, tall and proud, behind his mother. With a screech, Rhaegal landed with a sudden crash upon the Castle roof.

The bells were still ringing their merry tune over Horn Hill, and people had begun to arrive in droves, Castle servants and common folk mingled in groups a few dozen paces from the dragon; all of them whispered excitedly, seemingly curious enough to dare and see the dragons up close… but not one brave enough to take a step closer than the Castle doors and arched stone gates of the courtyard.

Sam turned back to the smaller dragon, draped over the Castle behind him. The beast’s head and shoulders had come down enough to see his back, and Sam furrowed his brow…

_Where’s Jon?_ The question was on his lips, but the Queen spoke before he managed a syllable.

“Lord Tarly,” she intoned, and from that alone, Sam knew his letters had been read, and the truth was known to her. “Would you come with me, a moment?” The steel in her voice clashed with her polite smile, and Sam swallowed. Her eyes burned into his, along with the burning red coals of the dragon behind her.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Sam managed as politely as he could, forcing his foot forward. The people gathered around tittered excitedly as he approached the dragon. For himself, Sam had to admit he felt rather brave and important. But each step closer to her hard eyes, he reminded himself more nervously that Daenerys Targaryen was a good and gentle Queen… The enchanting woman Sam met at Whiteharbor had matched the appellation of _The Silver Queen_ , but the Queen watching him now was someone else… _the Dragon’s Daughter,_ Sam thought warily. 

Standing below Drogon, Sam felt smaller than an insect to a wolf. Daenerys turned, her tight smile falling, and the dragon lowered himself. She climbed up his leg in a practiced way, then reached down to help Sam take the first step. The offer would have seemed polite, if not for the way her eyes bored into him. There was no choice for him, but to take her hand. 

Forcing his hand up, Sam hauled himself to perch on the dragon’s leg and dropped her hand to spread his arms for balance. The dragon Queen climbed up again, off the leg and onto the dragon’s back. Unsure of what madness or bravery possessed him, he took two spikes-- as dark and hot as fresh charcoal-- and hauled himself up onto the shoulder. Crouched on the base of the wing, Sam felt the height pulling on him, and he cast his eyes down. The crowd was watching him eagerly… _almost ten paces below, and as many more left to..._

Drogon hissed sharply and jerked his shoulder, tossing Sam to sprawl over his back. A shadow cast overhead was his only warning, and Sam wrapped his hands around two spikes. The dragon stooped beneath him, and he yelped, having expected _up_ , not _down…_ but the drop only lasted a heartbeat before Drogon leapt easily over the walls of Horn Hill. The wind gained with Sam’s shout, and he shut his eyes tight. The dragging weight of the ascent flattened him against the hot scales, and Sam clung with every muscle he had, praying he would be strong enough to stay on.

The force pulling down on him leveled quickly, just before Sam was sure his hands would give out, and they were soaring over the land. _One of the few people in history to ride a dragon,_ Sam cursed himself, _and my first instinct is to shut my eyes…_ Peeking, he first saw they were heading East-and-South, straight towards the northern peaks of the Red Mountains… _and the Tower of Joy,_ Sam realized with a twist in his gut. The ruined tower where _Aegon Targaryen_ had been brought into this world was a few hundred leagues south of Horn Hill, and the terrain made for a long and difficult journey.

Glancing down, that terrain was so far below that Sam almost retched then and there; a terrible tightness started in his eyes first, and spread to his ears and stuffed itself down his throat. _Altitude sickness,_ he realized. The phenomenal effect of drastic altitude change, to an unaccustomed person, was something he learned of in the Citadel, and it was known to render grown men and women unconscious in seconds. 

_Don’t fall off… don’t fall off… don’t bloody fall off._ It was all he could think, and he directed the thought entirely from his foggy head to his clutching hands. It was mere minutes before the Tower of Joy was spinning beneath them.

Large and wide, the Tower of Joy pointed long ends due East and West, as many Dornish structures were built, to better distribute the unforgiving warmth of the Southern sun. It was built on a jutting, plateaued boulder, the highest point nearby, and it overlooked a great valley within the Red Mountain range. Once well-manned, the Tower was halfway to ruin; great pieces of it had been claimed by long seasons of disuse, most visibly upon the stone wall that once proudly surrounded the keep. The smaller tower, which had once stood a short ways below the first, had been reduced to nothing but a pile of sandstone.

The descent was as nauseating as the takeoff had been, and Sam shut his eyes tight as the landscape rushed towards him. A crash and shudder, followed by stillness, told Sam that they had landed. He opened one eye to see the Queen was already halfway down, and when her feet touched the ground, Drogon hissed sharply; he ducked his shoulder lower, forcing Sam to pitch sideways and half-slide, half-roll to the dusty mountain stone. 

Dizzy, and nauseous beyond anything he had ever felt, Sam crouched on the ground and blinked hard, sucking at the thin, chilly air. Gasp after gasp, but nothing seemed to satisfy the need in his lungs, and the pressure in his ears and eyes had not subsided. Every hard swallow brought a pop to one ear or the other, each more uncomfortable than the last. _But you didn’t fall off,_ Sam commended himself. _Not bad, for your first time riding a dragon._

All the while, Sam could feel the Tower of Joy looming over him. When he finally recovered his breath enough to stand, he noticed that Daenerys was already at the top of the stair, which led up to the Tower. She walked straight inside without turning, and Sam did not need the warning hiss from Drogon to know he ought not follow. 

***

The dry air had preserved the wooden door from rot, but the hinges were long from their last use, and the Tower door gave way beneath her hand with an unwilling creak.

There were spiderwebs larger than Daenerys had ever seen weaved thickly along every corner, but besides the spiders, there did not seem to be anything alive within the Tower besides herself. A thick quiet lay in the foyer, and the short stone hall bore three passages leading off, but slow and quiet steps brought her up the stairs.

_Rhaegar named it the Tower of Joy…_ Daenerys remembered, brushing her fingers along the dust on the stair’s old wooden handrail, wondering if Rhaegar had once touched the same spot.

Up and up, the stairs dead-ended at a thick iron door, standing half-open before her. Moving through, she found the scattered remains of what might have been chambers; a large bedframe leaned brokenly against one wall; there were two wardrobes and an open archway on one side, leading to what looked like a washroom.

The room was old, and even though Rhaegar must have been here once, there was no trace of his memory left in the dry, muted air. Still, Daenerys lingered, casting her eyes about the room, trying to picture her brother at the windows, by the wardrobes… Timidly, she opened one dresser whose doors were not hanging half-open already, hoping that she might find something of his, hidden away. Of course, the closet was empty, and Daenerys left the doors hanging open when she turned away.

Her foot caught as she made for the door, and a breath escaped her. Just above the arch, carved with a rough hand, into the stone…

_“R L”_

_Rhaegar and Lyanna,_ her heart understood immediately, and Daenerys reached her hand up to touch the messy lettering. The stone beneath it was cool, but she felt warm with satisfaction, to feel a lasting mark that her brother had left on the world. Her fingers pulled away from the old etching, remembering the letters were far from the last mark Rhaegar had left on the world… 

Rhaegar had left a _son_ … A fractured memory struck her, like a broken piece of a long-forgotten dream, and Daenerys could almost hear Lyanna Stark whispering, _“His name… is Aegon Targaryen.”_

Not bothering to glance around at the empty room, Daenerys stepped through the door, made her way down the long stair and out the door. 

Drogon had lain himself over the plateau beneath the jutting stone, his dark wings unfurled, wrapping the peak in black. Rhaegal, still slight enough to fit upon the stone precipice, had curled himself around the Tower of Joy, his head as close to the door as it could be. He lifted his head and looked after her, as she passed by, and she saw in his unblinking eye, the same unbearable _longing_ that plagued her. _His mother I may be…_ she thought, turning her eyes down, _but Jon will always be his rider, now…_

Sam Tarly stood exactly where he had before, waiting for her return. Her gaze did not falter, as his did, while she approached.

“I’m sorry,” Sam blurted when she came to stand before him.

“Sorry…” she replied in a low voice. “For which part, I wonder? For betraying me? For uncovering a decades-old secret about your best friend, one which happens to negate my entire claim to Westeros? Or for unveiling that secret _after_ we had already married?”

Her anger had roused Drogon from his lazy sprawl, and the dragon shook himself and settled behind her. If given half an urge, the dragon would immolate Sam where he stood; _Drogon would do it for nothing,_ she thought, let alone for all the pain Sam had caused her...

“All of it,” Sam replied thickly, and wisely did not continue. Daenerys only stared at him. _If he weren’t Jon’s closest friend,_ she realized, _I might have already executed him for treason and sedition._

The last of her Queenly calm vanished. “I… _gave you_ Horn Hill,” she barked. “I did it on Jon’s word that you were a good man, a man worth _trusting_ !… You _swore_ yourself to me, in Winterfell,” she reminded him harshly, “Why… _Why_ would you betray me?”

“I didn’t,” Sam replied immediately, and her eyes widened. “Your Grace, I didn’t want to say _anything_ , but I’ve known Jon since I was eighteen years old… I love him like a brother, and… you have to understand how many times I heard him say he would give _anything_ to know the truth about his mother…”

_His mother…_ Daenerys almost scoffed, but her mouth shut again to remember what Jon had said to her, just before she fled Winterfell. _“…It took me until now to realize it, but it doesn’t matter who my mother was, or who she loved before I was born!”_ All she had been able to think about was Rhaegar, and how Daenerys Targaryen had unknowingly married her brother’s son… how Sam had betrayed her trust, after all she had given him… 

_Three betrayals you will know…_ the lifeless voice, which was itself a thousand voices, echoed from countless dreams past. ... _One for blood, one for gold, and one for love…_ Daenerys shuddered. 

“Jon used to tell me,” Sam went on, “that he prayed every night, hoping his mother was alive, somewhere. He dreamed of finding her, one day… When I found out what I did, I couldn’t keep it from him, and I couldn’t lie to him either,” Sam pleaded, helpless. “Then, when we rode North together, from Whiteharbor, and I saw the way he looked at you… Your Grace, even knowing the truth… I was happy for it. For you both.”

“Not as happy as we were,” she replied in a lifeless voice, and held his eye until he looked away. She cast her stare over the mountains, and held her silence. 

Sam was quiet for a while. “Gilly was… born of incest,” Sam said hesitantly, and Daenerys glanced at him, shocked. “Jon never told you,” he observed. “I shouldn’t be surprised… he promised not to tell anyone. Gilly was her father’s bride, just like her mother, and her grandmothers…”

“That’s terrible…”

Sam nodded in sharp agreement. “It is. Of course it is,” he said strangely, “but… and I’ve never told her this, mind you. But if… if Gilly wasn’t born exactly how she was… I don’t even know if I’d have met her, or… if I would love her the way I do, if she were someone else. I hate that idea,” Sam admitted. “I hate thinking that if something so terrible hadn’t happened to her, and she hadn’t been born in Craster's Keep… Gilly might have been a stranger to me.”

_A stranger…_ Jon had called Rhaegar the same thing. It seemed so absurd, on first hearing, but on the long flight from Winterfell, she had pondered the word for hours. A stranger was someone you did not know, or had never met... and despite all that she knew, all that she had heard, Daenerys had not known Rhaegar from her first breath. The closest she had come to knowing Rhaegar was touching his carving, in the Tower of Joy. _I don’t even know what he really looked like…_

“Your Grace?” Sam asked softly, pulling her eye from the reaching Tower.

“Jon… told me that it doesn’t matter what the truth is… He insisted that his father was Eddard Stark, and your letter hadn’t changed that for him.” _He said he couldn’t lose me…_ Daenerys bit the words back.

“I thought he might,” Sam replied with a weak chuckle, but his face grew quickly serious. “Your Grace, I haven’t told anyone else, and I won’t. I swear it on my life. Not even Gilly…” Sam trailed off, casting his eyes away for a while. “Maybe I was wrong to say anything at all… I don’t know. But, I am sorry.”

It sounded genuine… but an apology was so small a thing compared to all the pain Sam’s actions had wrought from her. Yet, he had confided in her a secret about Gilly-- and not all that dissimilar of a secret-- that his soon-to-be bride was born from generations on generations of incest, and that she was still the thing he held most dear in the world.

Daenerys turned and gazed over the country. Far to the Northeast, she could see Horn Hill peaking out among the rolling foothills. She recalled how the bells of Sam’s city had sung gladness for her arrival; how years ago, an exiled Conqueror with more enemies than allies had thought herself naive, for dreaming of bells singing her return to Westeros...

“You did what you thought was right,” she said at last. “But... I accept your apology.”

Sam bowed, a deep red crawling over his face. “I’m not sure I deserve forgiveness, but. Thank you, Your Grace… and if I might be forgiven one more bit of boldness,” Sam hedged, and waited until she nodded once. “Jon made a vow to you, beneath the Weirwood… and if he said all that to you… I know he would keep that vow, if he could.”

Daenerys regarded him, wondering how Sam Tarly had ever thought himself a coward, when he spoke so freely to her. Unfit to reply, Daenerys only turned, catching Rhaegal’s eye. 

The dragon crawled forward from where he had lain around the Tower of Joy and lowered his serpentine neck, putting his emerald-frilled face just in front of her. Daenerys reached out and stroked her hand along his cheek.

“Go,” she murmured.

Rhaegal whistled softly, raised his wings, and threw himself into the wind with a triumphant cry. After a hundred thudding beats of her heart, Rhaegal vanished to the Northern horizon. 


	46. The King's Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tyrion attends his duties as Hand, and receives surprising news from Jon. Arya asks Tyrion a question._

Seated alone within the war-room of Winterfell, Tyrion set a freshly-written letter to one side, dusted sand over it, and leaned back in his chair. He folded his hands together and pressed down; the muscles in his writing arm throbbed, and Tyrion blew the sand off the drying ink with a tactless breath. To the other side of his desk, a neat pile of scrolls, their unbroken seals flashing all manner of colors and sigils.

_ Only a hundred more to go…  _ he thought grimly, and wondered how far along Missandei was on her half of the three-hundred-sixteen letters. Still, it was hard to complain except for writing cramps, when all news since Jon and Daenerys announced their marriage had been almost disturbingly good.

Many of the Great Houses had already been destroyed by the wars, but those who were left had agreed to aid the fight against Cersei, with or without the mention of swearing fealty to the Targaryen rule. Lord Edmure, of House Tully, had sent a scroll riddled with spelling errors, suggesting an alliance in the memory of his late sister, Lady Catelyn Stark. From the Vale, Young Lord Robyn Arryn had sent a letter offering fealty, provided he be allowed a ride on  _ “the biggest dragon’s back.” _ When Tyrion had told the Queen, she had laughed merrily before she agreed,  _ “after the war is won.”  _

The lesser houses were swearing immediate fealty in exchange for retention of their lands and titles, and the noble houses were– at worst– requesting parley with the King and Queen to assess the viability of a partnership. Those letters Tyrion would leave unanswered, for now. The very lack of reply would, as the other Houses knelt, make for its own sort of  _ parley _ with the more intrepid, and more avaricious nobles. The King and Queen had been abundantly clear already, that they had neither time nor desire to meet with every Lord and Lady intent on earning themselves a sweeter pot.

_ How much would they have us offer… _ Tyrion wondered,  _ to have them do what is right? _ He supposed it did not matter much; Olenna Tyrell had spoken truth when she said  _ ‘The Lords of Westeros are sheep.’  _ Most of them would come to the flock either way, and ignoring their bleats for special consideration would thin the herd as well as any stern reply could. 

It troubled Tyrion that he was not the only one playing a silent hand. No word from the Capitol, which he had expected, but then there was the overt  _ reticence _ from Dorne, and despite his letters sent to the Dornish Houses, there was no whisper of reply yet. 

_ It will be a meager army, _ Tyrion thought, and he had warned Daenerys as much…  _ and an even match for Cersei, on the ground, unless we can convince Dorne to rejoin us.  _ The wars had ravaged Westeros, but Dorne’s impartiality had thus far spared their armies any serious damage. Yet all his letters to the great, noble, and lesser Houses of the far South had gone unanswered, and  _ embarrassingly _ , Tyrion was not even wholly certain  _ who ruled _ in Sunspear, now that all the Martells and most of their bastards had been slain.  _ Varys would have known,  _ Tyrion thought with an ache, and shook his hands out.

Taking up the quill with a grimace, Tyrion dropped it at once when King Jon burst through his door, fuming. “Daenerys is gone,” Jon said without preamble, storming across the room to the window. 

“What do you mean, gone?” Tyrion demanded, standing. “Gone where? And一 why?” 

“I don’t know,” Jon replied, turning from the window to plant his fists on the war table. 

He glared at the map of Westeros, his eyes flitting between Kingdoms. 

“What  _ do _ you know?” Tyrion asked, not suspiciously, but it was clear on Jon’s face that something was going unsaid. 

“She left because of me,” Jon gruffed, and his voice only rose from there. “It’s a private matter. And it’s not fair, and I didn’t ask for any of it!” 

An uncharacteristic scarlet was crawling over Jon’s face, and Tyrion decided he ought not press it any further.  _ A private matter indeed…  _ he thought,  _ if Daenerys would leave all her subjects behind without any word of her departure…  _

“She must have had a good reason for leaving,” Tyrion said in an attempt at comfort, but earning a hard look from Jon, he switched tactics. “I’m sure we will hear some word from her soon. For all we know, Daenerys will be back by sundown.”

“And what if we don’t hear from her?”

“Then we are lucky for the ease of tracking fully grown dragons. One must simply follow the screams and scorch marks.”

“How much do you know about them?” Jon asked gruffly. The King was still hunched over the war table, avoiding his eye. “The dragons?”

“As much as I could learn in one lifetime. Why?” 

“...Rhaegal went with her,” Jon said, “I asked him to stay. I  _ know _ that he wanted to, but he followed her.” 

Swallowing his jealousy, Tyrion regarded the  _ luckiest man alive _ with as much sympathy as he could muster. “Dragons are profoundly loyal creatures,” Tyrion replied. “They become instantly attached to their riders…  _ ‘The first flight is the last,’ _ ” he quoted fondly, “Jaehaerys the First wrote that it only takes one flight, and the bond between dragon and rider is sealed forever…” 

Tyrion caught Jon’s eye before he went on, “But the  _ Mother of Dragons  _ is no more a mere  _ title _ to them, than it is to  _ her _ . Daenerys brought them into the world from extinction, a fact I believe they are highly aware of; she raised them, trained them, and loved them for exactly what they were, no matter how monstrous they seemed to everyone else...  _ If _ Rhaegal was forced to choose,” Tyrion hedged, “he would choose Daenerys, each and every time.” 

“I didn’t make him choose,” Jon shot back bitterly. 

“I never said you did,” Tyrion reminded him, and Jon turned his face away. “I won’t ask what happened between yourself and the Queen… Perhaps I  _ should _ ,” he added, catching a quick glare from Jon, “...But I won’t.”  _ For now, anyways... _ “However, as your Hand, I must ask what you plan to do now that our Queen is otherwise engaged.” 

Jon nodded. “We’ve delayed long enough. Begin preparations for the march South,” he decided. “We leave as soon as possible. The Northmen will march South with me tomorrow, at first light. Tell Grey Worm and Khava to follow with the Dothraki and Unsullied as soon as they can. Yara Greyjoy will go with them as far as the Barrowlands, then sail whatever’s left of the fleet from Whiteharbor, to King's Landing.” Tyrion blinked back his surprise, but Jon went on without looking at him, gesturing to the map on the war table as he dictated. “We should have enough ships to ferry the Northmen and Unsullied, but the Dothraki will have to ride down the Kingsroad.” 

“I would advise the fleet anchor elsewhere, away from the Capitol,” Tyrion broke in at the pause, “The army should march South,” he agreed, “to Lord Harroway’s Town, and no further. Cersei has had ample time to prepare an ambush in Blackwater Bay, and the Crownlands. She will be waiting for us.”

“Harroway’s Town is a good rendezvous point,” Jon allowed, eyes fixed on the map.

“It is,” Tyrion agreed. The large trade town was a crossroads for three major roads of Westeros: the River Road, the Kingsroad, and the High Road. Besides that, it had its own port in the mouth of the Trident. “Lady Clara, of House Roote, currently holds Harroway’s Town. We ought to send word to her now, announcing our arrival, and give the nobles from the Riverlands, the Vale, and the Westerlands a chance to meet with us.”

“What makes you think Lady Clara would offer us safe conduct?”

“House Roote has already requested a meeting,” Tyrion gestured to the neat stack of letters on his desk, “Harroway’s Town relies on trade, and trade with the East has suffered greatly since Euron Greyjoy began pillaging ships from the Narrow Sea. He seems to be operating out of Dragonstone, and has made no secret of it. I would guess his intent is to slight Daenerys enough to lure her back to Dragonstone, as close as he can to the Capitol, to stage an ambush.”

Jon nodded consideringly. “Not King’s Landing then... Instead, Yara will sail the fleet past the Saltpans and up the Trident. She’ll have to sail around the Fingers and Gulltown, but the heading won’t put her anywhere near Dragonstone. They should make port at Harroway's town about the same time as the Dothraki and Unsullied, if not before.”

Tyrion muted his breath of relief and nodded; he was grateful he need not argue the matter of _not_ _marching Daenerys’ army straight to King’s Landing without her command_ any further _..._ It was uncomfortable to wonder if Daenerys would approve of everything, or _anything_ that he was doing for King Jon, given _whatever_ had happened between them... But on her command, Tyrion had sworn an oath to serve her, and to serve the King… and above all else, to serve the common people. It was hardly the first time he had lamented that every day the war for the Seven Kingdoms was delayed, people were suffering under Cersei’s rule, probably more than ever. 

“I will inform Grey Worm and the Dragonlords at once,” Tyrion said, moving for his cloak. As he threw the dark wool over his shoulders, he gave the pile of letters a disdainful glance and grew chipper in the face of a break. “Is there anything more you require of me?” Tyrion asked, synching the last tie on his cloak, hoping for something, even if he did not know what. His relationship with the King and Queen was on a recent, and hard-earned upswing, and he was eager to hear where he would ride, on the march South. 

King Jon turned to him, and at once, Tyrion did not like the look. “You can stay here,” Jon said, “and watch over the North until the war is won.”

“Stay? But… I have to  _ be _ there,” Tyrion argued, “when you and Daenerys take the Iron Throne!” 

“You don’t have to, you want to,” Jon reminded him, though not without sympathy. Tyrion broke his gaze, painfully aware of the truth Jon spoke. “You know as well as I do,” Jon went on, “that the North is more vulnerable than it’s ever been.  _ Someone _ has to stay in Winterfell and watch over the people.”

“Your sister is-” 

“Arya won’t stay here, even if I ask her to. I’m surprised she hasn’t left for the Capitol already, now that Gendry’s up and about. The North knows you Tyrion, and they know you speak for myself and Daenerys. I  _ need  _ you to stay here until Arya returns from the Capitol. Maybe… maybe if Bran wakes up...” Jon trailed off, and lost the opportunity to finish the thought when the door opened.

Arya slipped in and shut it firmly behind her, then folded her arms behind her back. “What makes you think I’ll return to Winterfell, after I kill Cersei?” Arya demanded.

Tyrion gaped a bit at her, but Jon did not seem at all surprised at his sister’s sudden, uninvited entrance. “You’re the Stark in Winterfell,” Jon reminded her. “And the Warden of the North.” 

“What if I become the Master of Whispers?” Arya asked. “It might be hard to manage a network that big from one place, let alone from Winterfell.”

“Are you saying you won’t go back?” Jon wondered, at the same time that Tyrion asked, “So… you’ve accepted the position?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. An awkward pause gripped them, with Jon staring frustratedly at his sister, Arya staring implacably back at him, and Tyrion glancing between the two.

“When the war is won,” Tyrion said, trying to sound less resigned than he felt, “we will see about appointing a Warden of the North,” he forced his next words out. “Until that time, I will remain in Winterfell, and act as Warden interim.” 

_ It could be years… _ but Tyrion kept that complaint to himself, and he felt better when the King sighed heavily, put his hand on his shoulder, and thanked him. “There are worse seasons to be trapped in the North than spring,” Jon added, shaking his shoulder a bit, and Tyrion obliged him with a rueful grin. He supposed he ought to be proud, to be asked to watch over Jon’s homeland, and the King was right when he said the North was vulnerable. 

“I’m leaving for King’s Landing tonight,” Arya said, pulling Jon’s attention back. “Gendry’s coming with me, so is the Hound.”

“Sandor Clegane?” Tyrion clarified, “Why?” 

“He’s going to kill the Mountain.”

“Of course,” Tyrion said hesitantly, “and you’re going to kill Cersei.” 

“Is that a problem?” 

“On the contrary… it’s a solution,” Tyrion replied, resenting the melancholy that rose in him. “Daenerys was almost ready to ask you herself… she’s concerned that Cersei will destroy the Capitol before she loses the battle for it.” Tyrion had no doubt if Cersei was capable of it, and for all that his sister had already done, there was no question of  _ if _ she deserved to die… but there had been kindness in Cersei, once; if it had never extended to  _ him _ , her love and joy had all gone to her children.  _ And it died with them, too...  _

“Will you make it quick?” Tyrion asked, despite himself. 

“Every animal deserves a clean kill,” she replied evenly, and he nodded his thanks. “Why did Daenerys ask me to be Master of Whispers?” Arya asked, staring at him with large, darkly unsettling eyes.

“I told her she ought to,” Jon replied for him, but Arya did not break her gaze, and her question stood for Tyrion to answer. 

“The last Master of Whispers,” Tyrion began fondly, “thought only of the safety and well-being of the common people. The children, first and foremost. As the new Spymaster, it would be your responsibility to employ them  _ generously _ , in the same manner as Varys once did, and to give them the same opportunity to help themselves depose unworthy rule. After what your brother told Daenerys about you,” Arya glanced at Jon, then slid her eyes back in the same beat, “our Queen must have thought you were well-suited to the task of offering power to the powerless.”

Arya stared at him, and if she did not smile, Tyrion saw some of the darkness recede from her eyes, and she nodded acceptance to his answer. “I’ll think about it,” she assured him, then turned to Jon. “I’m going to visit father, before I go.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Jon replied, and Arya nodded, turned, and left without another word. “Tyrion,” Jon said importantly in the quiet, “Jaime is to remain here with you. Under no circumstance is he permitted to leave Winterfell before you do.” 

Tyrion nodded assent, with neither desire nor motive to argue the point. It was beyond remarkable that Jon and Daenerys had placed any trust in Jaime at all, and if Tyrion was to be stuck in Winterfell for a time, at least he would have his brother stuck right alongside him.

“I don’t expect he would leave, even if he could,” Tyrion replied. “With Ser Brienne in such an uncertain state…” 


	47. The Nature of Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [i] In the crypts of Winterfell, Arya muses on her father's past while she waits for Jon to arrive. Unbeknownst to Jon, Rhaegal flies North. [/i]

The musty air in the crypts was as cold and welcoming as father's stone face, staring eyelessly at her from above his coffin, looking less like the man himself than last she saw it. Every time Arya came to visit, she hoped his statue would resemble him better, but it seemed Ned was even more stubborn in death than in life. Still, it was a better image than the last real memory she had of him; if the head on the statue's shoulders did not bear great likeness to father's, at least it was still attached. 

It was difficult to grasp after all these years, that the stone face of Arya's father was not also the face of Jon's. The lifeless statue looked _somewhat_ like Ned, and the long, drawn features of the Starks on the stone looked as much like Jon as it did the man it was meant to resemble.

"You lied to us," Arya said, as if her father might hear her. _Why would you do that?_ She tried to imagine what he would have said in his defense. Eddard Stark had been as opposed to a lie as men came, and though for Jon's sake, Arya had tried not to wonder her way to an answer, she could not help herself for her curiosity.

 _You would only have lied to protect your family..._ Arya turned her eye, and the stone faces of Ned's siblings stood a few paces down to either side.

 _Uncle Benjen..._ She dismissed the thought as it came. Benjen had known Jon, and loved him; she knew of no reason for Benjen to lie. The man had held as stubbornly to the same values as their father. Uncle Brandon was even more unlikely; it was a well-kept secret among the Starks that Uncle Brandon had preferred the company of men. 

Arya turned her eye to Aunt Lyanna's serene, stony face. _"You've got the wolf blood in you, child,"_ father used to tell her that, when she got up to mischief. _"Your Aunt Lyanna did too,"_ he would add sometimes, always quietly, even if he was angry... _"It led her to her grave..."_

It dawned on her that father had kept not one secret about Jon, but two. _So he is a Stark..._ Sniffing a laugh, Arya turned a smug look to father's statue.

"You always had a soft spot for your girls," she said. The muted air of the crypts seemed to swallow her voice, and the dead kept their silence.

 _Lyanna Stark,_ who had been found dead by her brother in the Tower of Joy, at the end of Robert's Rebellion... A war named for the man who started it, the day that Lady Lyanna was kidnapped by Rhaegar Targaryen to the Red Mountains of Dorne.

Arya stiffened. At the end of the same war, Ned Stark– a man known half the world over for _infallible_ honesty– had forsaken his wedding vows, and returned from Dorne with a bastard babe. It had never made sense to her, not until now.

Jon was as much as Stark as she had thought, but he was more than that; he had been born with a claim to the Iron Throne. The son of the crowned Prince, trueborn or not, would have been considered a threat to King Robert, who had never stopped hunting the last Targaryens.

"I understand," Arya told her father. Her gaze stayed fixed on the stone face, despite the dull creak of a door opening and shutting again.

A dozen slow, echoing steps announced Jon. Only after his hand touched her shoulder did she glance. Jon stared at Aunt Lyanna's statue with unspeakable grief in his eyes, and Arya bit her lip, consigning herself to the same silence her father once had. _Not unless he tells me,_ she decided. A girl could keep secrets well enough, to her grave and beyond, if she must.

"Can I tell you something?" Jon asked after a time, and she nodded.

"...Sansa," Jon gruffed finally, as if the name itself was a burden, "There'll be nothing left of her... No remains to bring back to Winterfell crypts," Jon paused, his face drawn into a deep frown. "I'm glad for it," he admitted. "After what she did, I wouldn't rest easily, knowing Sansa was halled in the same crypt as father and... and the rest of us."

She considered his words for a time, and found herself in somber agreement. "Sansa was never kind," Arya reminded him. "Not to me, at least. Or to anyone else she didn't have use for..." _And she was a liar,_ Arya reminded herself. _The worst kind of dishonest..._ Sansa would let innocent people die– Mycah, the Butcher's boy, first of all– and still withhold the truth for her own gain.

"She wasn't kind to me either," Jon replied sadly, "Not until she needed me." Though it went without saying, Arya nodded sympathetically. "Still," he sighed, "No-one deserves what she went through. I just thought..." he shook his head, ashamed. "I thought I'd... mourn her. I think father would have expected me to, if he were here."

"Probably," she admitted. "There's no point in wondering, though, is there?" Jon only shook his head, frowning at the lifeless stone.

"What do you think you'll do," he asked after a pause, "when the war is won?"

"What do _you_ think I'll do?" She returned, earning a half-hearted chuckle.

"Same thing as always," Jon said, "Whatever you want to."

Arya grinned shamelessly. "You want me to come to the Capitol with you," she assumed; Jon had been the first to suggest her for the new Master of Whispers. He nodded. "Why?"

"For one, I can't think of anyone I'd trust to be more suited to the position," Jon said easily, but his eyes took a troubled, faraway look. "But mostly it makes me feel better about going to King's Landing, knowing you might be there with me... "

Arya looked at him, and though she had seen much of him in recent weeks, she noticed in a new way that Jon looked older. There were lines on his face, from laughter and even more from worry, and none of them faded when his face relaxed. The deep, dark grey of his eyes bored into her, and the wolfish part of her felt a terrible nervousness in his heart. The wolf-bond could _only_ go both ways, and Arya knew that the feeling was an echo of her own unease. 

_"There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,"_ father used to say. But all of them were dead now, and The Three-Eyed Raven was no more a Stark than the Faceless Man. There was only one Stark left who could remain in Winterfell, and she was not sure that she wanted to.

A blind girl, alone across the Narrow Sea had once longed for home so fiercely that her bones ached... but now, Arya was not sure that _home_ was as simple as stone walls and familiar skies...

"Whatever I end up doing," she said, choosing her next words with care, "I'll always be your family." Jon caught her meaning as innocently as she had meant him to, and in his usual way, he suspected nothing more of it. He glanced at Lyanna's statue half a heartbeat, then back, and nodded heartily... but his eyes still looked sad over his smile. "You'll be a good King," Arya assured him with an honest confidence. "Maybe the first."

"I hope you're right. But..." Jon sighed, "All of this is assuming Daenerys doesn't annul our marriage."

"Why would she—"

"Remember you promised not to pry," Jon said sternly.

"Right, sorry," she chuckled. "Force of habit..." She pondered for a moment, then shook her head. "I don't think she would do that," _Despite what you are, to each other..._

She wished Jon would tell her the truth, so she could comfort him better. It was common enough among Westerosi nobles to marry within families. By law, incest was a line drawn at the union of parents to children, and brothers to sisters... Noble marriages between even first cousins were hardly offered scrutiny. It would be difficult to name a noble family who had not married _within_ once or twice, or even a dozen times, as recently as Robert Arryn's proposal to his first cousin, Sansa... A royal marriage between aunt and nephew would not be so appalling to Westerosi... _if_ the Targaryen Queen did not happen to hail from _infamous_ line of incestuous marriage. 

With a glance, Arya decided Jon had glowered too long without reply. "Jon... I saw the way she looked at you, before. Daenerys loves you."

"She _left_ me," Jon reminded her, and Arya shrugged.

"Love is complicated," she said as gently as she could. "And we both know that Daenerys is more complicated than most people." Jon nodded sullenly in reply. "And _better_ than most people," Arya added importantly, catching his eye. "Give her some time, and--"

Instinct pulled her ear to listen, and she grinned widely just before a dull, rolling thud echoed in the crypts. Scattered puffs of dust reigned from the stone ceiling. She meant to turn her triumphant look to Jon, but he was already halfway to the stairs. Following on his heels, Arya was through the doors just after him, grinning in awed expectation.

Beyond the doors, two red, glowing eyes were cast deep in the shadow of a dark, thorny crown. Silver teeth longer than _Needle_ parted in a soft croon, and the dragon's breath warmed the air like a summer wind.

"Rhaegal," Jon breathed, and the beast whistled softly and leaned lower from his perch on the rooftops. The virid green of his frills trembled, and Rhaegal pressed his cheek to Jon's outstretched hand.

Her brother laughed breathily and pulled his hand away. "I wish I could say I knew you'd come," Jon said, and the dragon parted his jaws in a quiet, quivering bray that sounded almost like laughter.

Jon turned to her, beaming, but a troubled look interrupted whatever thought he must have had. "I'm supposed to lead the armies to White Harbor, tomorrow morning..."

"A King should keep his promises," Arya replied, and his scowl deepened. "So you'd better be back by morning," she added with a dry grin, and laughed when the realization dawned on him. "I'll cover for you, until then."

"What will you say?" Jon asked, and she shrugged.

"Dunno. But you're lucky I'm a better liar than you are."

Jon laughed heartily, and pulled her into a hug. He kissed the top of her head and held her close. "I am lucky," he agreed, with a hand on each of her shoulders. "Thank you, Arya."

The dragon leaned closer, and Jon climbed deftly up his ankle and over his shoulder. The harness he had worn had been destroyed in the Long Night, and Rhaegal chirped eagerly as Jon settled on his bare back. With a rush of warm wind, the dragon took Jon to the Southern sky and beyond.

***

More of Westeros than Jon had seen in the whole of his life rolled beneath him in the first hour. The dragon flew almost directly South, but a slight angling to the West brought them straight over the Barrowlands. The flat, windswept plains were familiar to him, from boyhood, and even from here he could see the clusters of mounded graves, the burial sites of the First Men. South of the Barrowlands, the bogs of the Neck, darkest green slashed often with silver. 

When Rhaegal passed over Greywater Watch, it was the farthest South Jon had ever come, excepting his voyage to Dragonstone, and he had made no stops along the way to the island, much as he wanted to; there had been no time. 

Over the Twins, where Robb and Lady Catelyn had been murdered. By the second hour they came to the North side of Ironman's bay. The afternoon sun gleamed on the azure waves, and even from this height Jon could smell the clean, salty air. A deep breath brought a deep sense of refreshment and wonder; the unfamiliar ocean smelled even sweeter, even stranger than the Narrow Sea by Dragonstone. _The Bay of Ice never smelled like anything... except cold,_ Jon thought with a sniff, appreciating the glittering whitecaps as they rolled beneath him.

The mountain range lining the Southern edge of the bay sprung up before him, shedding water on their landward sides into the Riverlands. Holds and keeps passed beneath, but except for Riverrun at the Red Fork, the castles and keeps were unfamiliar to him; he was far from familiar terrain, and geography had never been his strongest subject.

Craggy mountains jutted up and down, and up again before they rolled steadily into foothills, then to sweeping green fields, which Jon had only ever _heard_ made up the fertile lands of the Reach.

He laughed, for never in his life had he seen so much uninterrupted green, and he urged Rhaegal down closer. Deer scattered wisely in herds as the dragon passed over, just a few paces above. The wind preceded them, ruffling the long grass, and the warm scent of earth and pollen tickled Jon's nose while bursts of flowering color flew beneath with more speed than seemed possible.

All the while, Rhaegal had flown South and West, and Jon was certain he was bound for Horn Hill before the flat-faced Castle, nestled on the Northern slope of the Red Mountains, came into view. After a few more minutes, the walls were beneath them. Rhaegal banked sharply to the East, and flew straight on. The foothills climbed again, higher into the Red Mountains.

 _Where are you?_ Jon wondered anew. There was nothing South of Horn Horn except Dorne... Before long, Rhaegal was flying through a deep ravine, _The Prince's Pass_ , Jon remembered with some effort. _Father came through here, during Robert's Rebellion..._

The dragon circled high over a jutting plateau, bearing an enormous boulder, dark as night against the ruddy stone for which the Red Mountains were named. Without warning, Rhaegal plunged, roaring, and the black boulder stirred with sudden ferocity.

Raising his head, Drogon stretched his wings and returned Rhaegal's call, then launched eagerly into the air. The two circled each other, crying raucously, until both dragons landed suddenly near the broken tower. The two took off again, together, as soon as Jon's feet had touched the ground.

Curiously, he gazed over the small field below the ruined tower that he had been led to; gold and purple flowers he could not name gaped up at the sky. They were beautiful, but for the moment Jon could not have cared less for them. With nowhere else to look, he moved hastily up the crumbling steps for the standing-open door of the tower.

A loaded quiet greeted him, within the tower, and some instinct drew him straight up the steps. On the hand-rail, Jon noticed a long sweep through the dust, and he hastened his step up the winding stair, to an iron door standing half-open.

He took a breath as he stepped quietly through the gap.

Daenerys was by the window, seated in an old wooden chair. She caught his eye as he stepped inside, and at once glanced down to her hands, clutched tight in her lap. Rising, she took the last few steps to him with eyes downcast. The loose red-and-charcoal gown she wore swished loudly, compared to the quiet that hung between them.

Jon stiffened, unsure of what would come next. All of him hoped to be with her to the end of his days, but he would not– _could not_ – argue, if her decision was to annul their marriage. It was no small ask, he knew, for her to ignore what blood had made of them...

"I'm sorry," she began. Jon swallowed, wondering which way she meant the apology.

"My family..." Daenerys struggled, a moment. "There was never a day I didn't hope to discover that another Targaryen still lived, somehow. Some family to trust and rely on. Someone good and just, and... _better_ than Viserys. I spent years wishing for something impossible... and here you are," she remarked. "And I... _ran away_ from you– _of all people_ – like a frightened child."

 _Family..._ Still unsure how she meant it, Jon could only stare into the troubled green flames of her eyes, and she went on without urging.

"I've made more mistakes than I care to admit," Daenerys murmured, glancing down at her hands, folded before her. Timidly, she raised one up, and without thinking, Jon took it. He put it to his chest, sighing for the warmth it brought the cold, stiff flesh beneath her fingers. _Gods... her smile..._

"What we have is no mistake," she said surely. "How many chances did we both have, to learn the truth? How many times did we avoid discovering what we were to each other?"

"Thousands," Jon whispered. _Every time father spoke to me, he could have told me,_ Jon thought. _If I had known, before I met her..._

He did not bother to finish the thought. Instead, he watched the joy bloom on her face as he pulled her close and kissed her with all the softness he had. The eagerness of her lips, and sweetness of her scent made him forget anything else, until she pulled away.

"Why are you crying?"

"Because, I'm happy," she said thickly, but she cast her eyes down before she went on. "I thought that I'd driven you away... That if you had time to think about it, you would realize that you didn't want–"

"You?" Jon scoffed. He brushed a thumb down the silk of her cheek. "How could I not want you, Nera?" He asked, not expecting an answer.

"Because we can't have children..."

"I already knew that," he replied.

"No, I mean... Even _if_ I managed to bear you a child," she trailed off, searching for the words.

"Sam... told me about Gilly," she explained, and went on despite the shock it brought him. "He explained to me what risks come with... people like _us_ , having children of our own. He told me that... marriages within the family were probably the reason so many of the Targaryens succumbed to madness."

"But _we're_ not mad," Jon argued.

"I know," she said softly, "but, it doesn't matter. The _risk_ is still there. And I..." she trailed off a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was resolute. "I will _not_ curse an innocent child to spend his life wondering if he might become another... _mad Targaryen_ ," her mouth twisted on the phrase.

Jon paused, considering all that she had said. "So you thought," he began, "that I wouldn't want to be with you, _not_ because we're related... but because you've decided that we can't have children of our own... even though," he went on, less certainly, "you already told me that you can't have children of your own?"

She nodded timidly in reply, and he could not help but laugh. "That's madness," he whispered, and her eyes widened before she caught the jest, ducked her head, and laughed with him. Jon pulled her into his arms and held her tight against his chest where she belonged, and sighed into her warmth. There was a new sort of softness on her, when they pulled away again.

"Do you know where we are?" Daenerys asked quietly, and Jon shook his head.

"I've never been this far south, not by half. And I can't say I've committed every ruined tower in Westeros to memory."

She smiled coyly. "Rhaegar named it the _Tower of Joy_ ," she said dreamily, and Jon glanced around in shock; he _did_ know this place. This was where Ned Stark had found Lyanna, at the end of Robert's Rebellion...

Daenerys turned to the door he had entered through, smiling softly. Following her gaze, Jon saw two letters sarved roughly into the stone. _R L_...

"You were born here," she said, just as his mind put it together, and he breathed his shock into a laugh, reaching up to brush his fingers on the old etching. "Naming this tower was one of the last things that Rhaegar ever did... He named it for you."

"The Tower of Joy," Jon remarked, and pulled his hand back. He turned to face her again, and offered a dry smile. " _Stormborn_ sounds better," he jested, delighting in her laugh.

"Come on," Jon offered her his arm, and led her out the first door, and the second, to the open mountain sky. They walked that way to the cliff's edge, and the wind ruffled along his furs, stirring the loose parts of her gown. "I've never seen the sun set over these mountains," he said appreciatively.

"I haven't either," she replied with a soft smile.

The sun was failing in the West, and though it was strange and beautiful, Jon frowned at it. He wished he had more time to stay with her, but if he was to make it back by first light, to lead the armies South, he would need to leave before the moon was highest, and it was halfway to its ascent already.

It occurred to him then, that Daenerys could not yet have heard of his recent decisions, and so at once he told her everything; how, in attempt to follow her, he had elected to lead the armies to Whiteharbor at first light, and he explained the strategy of the rendezvous at Lord Harroway's Town.

Daenerys listened with a cool, clear look, and thought for a while after he finished. "It's a good plan," she allowed, and Jon breathed a sigh of relief.

"Tyrion's full of good ideas lately," he replied humbly, and informed her that Tyrion had elected, at his request, to stay in Winterfell with Jaime until the war was won.

"Good," she replied. "It's best he stays out of Cersei's reach."

"Aye," Jon agreed. "I think Sam's wedding will have to wait a few more days," he observed, and she nodded in reply. _Waiting is the least he can do, after all that,_ Jon thought, looking forward to giving his best friend a well-deserved punch on the arm.

The moon had made good time in her march across the sky; they would have to leave before the hour was through to make it back to Winterfell by morning.

"I'd like to see some of the view, before it gets dark," Jon said. "We should go soon. We might get some sleep before the march."

"No," Daenerys replied with soft certainty, glancing at him before fixing a faraway gaze to the South. "Lead the armies to Harroway's Town. Wait for me there." There was an ambitious look, a familiar fire raging just behind her eyes. "I have other matters to attend, in the South..." 


	48. Dorne (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _From the Tower of Joy, Jon flies North, to lead the armies from Winterfell. Alone, Daenerys flies Drogon to Dorne._

"I've never seen a sunset linger so long," Jon remarked softly, and mostly to himself.

Daenerys nodded in fond reply; she had learned long ago, the stubbornness of the desert sun, and how the light would linger long after its source dipped behind the horizon. Hours passed, and while the sunset bled a slow death over the Red Mountains, moon climbed the amber hills of Dorne, full and eager. She and Jon sat together, their legs dangling freely over the edge of the plateau, watching the dragons dance as gargantuan shadows on warm winds and darkened skies. They called sweet songs into the night, and the warm, heavy air was rich with the scent of earth.

The King and Queen discussed a necessary bit of politics, and matters of strategy, but mostly they sat in quiet and watched the moon climb to its highest point in the sky. At that, Daenerys bid a reluctant, and necessary farewell to her husband.

"Be careful," Jon said, his hands wrapped just below her shoulders. "We can't know what to expect from them."

"Nor they from us," Daenerys returned with an easy smile.

Jon nodded, but worry still plagued his expression. "Be careful," he said again, and brushed a thumb down her cheek. "I'll see you in Harroway's Town... a fortnight from today, at the latest," he affirmed, and she nodded verily.

They parted, reaching fingers last of all, and as she turned, the softness that Jon always brought to her hardened to stony resolve. Danerys climbed Drogon's wing with steady hands, and turned her eyes South. " _Sōvētēs..."_

Drogon leapt from the jutting peak and plunged; his wings spread suddenly wide to catch the wind, and her dragon took to the Southern sky with an eager roar.

_Dorne..._ The only Kingdom in Westeros without any Houses yet sworn to their rule. Weeks since the Great War was won, and all letters to Dorne had gone yet unanswered. The boldness of their reticence was hardly surprising; the Targaryens had tried and failed to conquer Dorne by force for two hundred years, and despite all their resources, dragons, and brutality, the country had remained independent until an arranged marriage finally brought them into the fold.

_"Dorne resisted us for centuries,"_ Viserys once recalled during her lessons, as if he had been there himself. _"...Until King Daeron the Second gave up his trueborn sister as a bride for Prince Maron Martell... Do you know who she was, sweet sister?" Viserys asked tenderly, "The name of the Targaryen Princess who won us the Seven Kingdoms?" She shook her head in reply. "She was your namesake," he finished, smiling as he slipped his hands just below her jaw. "Princess Daenerys, daughter of Aegon the Fourth..."_

_Aegon the Unworthy_ , she recalled the very same King's common name with a sniff, _though of course Viserys never mentioned that..._ With little else to do but think and watch the mountain foothills roll beneath, she wondered again what had happened to Princess Daenerys. Once, as a girl, she had poured through a dozen books trying to find out what had become of her nakesake, but the Princess' history always seemed to halt at the first mention of her marriage to Prince Maron and birth of their children, the heirs to House Martell.

_Queen_ Daenerys would offer no such marriages to ally Dorne to her cause, or to any other Kingdom or keep, and she would accept none. _No more,_ she had determined long ago, even before she left Meereen; _Under my rule, there will be no more children torn from their homes and sold like livestock to the highest bidder._ Her Hand, wisely, had not argued the point, but instead Tyrion warned her that Westerosi nobles would take to the notion as kindly as the slavers did, when she had outlawed their trade. _"And I will tolerate it no more in Westeros than I did in the East," the Queen replied._

While Daenerys recounted everything she could remember about Dorne, the Winged Shadow flew low over the unfamiliar land, and the bright, heavy moon cast enough light to see what features made up the province. The Red Mountains gave way to rolling hills, cut through with thin, glittering streams, but when the mountains rivers ran dry, there was little left to see, save Drogon's shadow sweeping silently over windblown sands, and the occasional barren, rocky outcrop.

_A hard country_ , she had learned, and now she saw proof of it, cast in the moonlight. _As dry as the Red Waste, and even harder to navigate on foot,_ Daenerys thought warily, noting how long the shadows stretched between great, rounded hills of sand. Even _if_ she could get her armies through the Dornish Marches and across the sands of Dorne– as her ancestors had _failed_ to do– it was not a march that would be made without heavy losses.

That certainty gave her some comfort, and she was proud, and glad– as well as frightened– that excepting her dragon, Daenerys Targaryen had come alone, to Dorne. 

While the barren sands swept past, minutes rolled along with each rounded hill, until a yawn took her by surprise. At once, her body realized its fatigue; her day had begun at dawn, and she had taken no food or water since. Daenerys draped herself forward and shut her eyes, only raising them again to glimpse where they had landed.

A short, sudden valley of bare rock, with a small pool of clean, clear water that bubbled from deep underground. She climbed down wearily, drank her fill from the spring, then curled up in the warm crook between Drogon's folded wing and chest. The air was sharp with cold, compared to the heat of the dragon beneath her, and above, the night sky stretched with a strange and wonderful bounty of stars.

_... From a red stone arch, Daenerys watched the children play in the shallow pools, longing for the old friends and frequent rains of home, no less than the first day. As she had for years, she reminded herself that she was lucky enough; if her husband was cold and humorless, at least he was not as cruel a man as she had once imagined._

_"Mother?" Her son called from behind, and she turned halfway around to look at him. He looked so much like his father, and the ebony curls atop his brown head had grown as many inches as his legs, in the last year._

He is nearly a man grown, _Daenerys thought, and wondered how else her son would change as he grew, if he would behave as well as resemble his father, more and more as the years pressed on. "Are you well?" He asked, and the question stilled some of her unease._

_"Come here, sweet thing," she beckoned him and turned back to the pools. The loose reds and golds of her gown lofted gently in the breeze. When her son took his place beside her, she set a hand on his shoulder, keeping eyes on the children, who splashed, leapt, and danced in the water; highborn and low alike, all children were welcome to play in the shallow waters._

_"_ This _is your realm," she told him firmly, "Remember them, in everything you do."_

Her son promised something in reply, but by then the columns and shimmering pools had given way to a craggy ravine of uncut red stone, overlain with a pink and hearty sky. _A dream,_ Daenerys realized as the finer details of it faded, replaced by a dusty itch on her skin. 

As she often did, she longed for more time to ponder strange dreams, and roused herself. Drogon stirred only a little when she slid down his ankle, and Daenerys wished in vain for breakfast. Though her mind felt refreshed, the rest had done nothing to ease the hollow in her stomach.

Kneeling again by the spring, Daenerys filled a skin of water, then quickly braided her hair into one long rope, twisted the length up, and pinned it behind. Though the night had borne a desert chill, the morning heat was already enough to make the skin prickle. Her loose, red-and-charcoal gown was reddened with dust, and heavy with sweat. She splashed water on her face and wiped the dust from her bare arms, reveling in the cool, clean touch of it, then paused with wide eyes fixed on the earth.

Beneath her feet, pressed into the wet sand, was a pair of paw prints, larger than both of her hands together, and tipped with claws that left long furrows in the clay.

Glancing up, her eyes found a short, wide cave, not five paces off, across the pool. Three lionesses lay quietly within, barely visible except for the shadowed gold of their fur against parched rock. They watched her with yellow eyes, wide and still, and sharp as the ribs pressed to their pelts. Silently, Daenerys stood, and one lioness, the largest, stood with her.

Sharp and sudden, Drogon hissed and shook himself awake, the force of his breath stirring a small dust storm. By the time Daenerys glanced back, the lionesses had vanished into their cave. Sparing the cave a final, uneasy look, she turned and climbed Drogon's waiting shoulder, and flew on, East.

The Dornish landscape was painted with heavy pinks and sterile brown in the growing light of dawn, but the River Greenblood was true to its name; dark and virid, where it streaked along the parched red land, and punctuated by occasional spatterings of colorful blooms. The first settlements appeared at the earliest touch of green, and grew only denser as the Greenblood flowed on.

There were people now, to watch her pass, and they gathered in groups to watch her shadow swallow their village before moving on. Over Drogon's right wing, Daenerys saw at last the Dornish coast, where it met the pearly blue water of the Summer Sea, and far ahead, on a jutting peninsula, the city and palace of Sunspear.

Most of Dorne's populace took their residence in the city, and for _their_ sake, as well as her own, she prayed no harm would befall her. _There will be no stopping Drogon, then..._ she thought with a twist in her stomach. _Or Jon, for that matter._

Steeling her resolve, the Queen flew straight over the sprawling city, circled once over the castle, and came to land upon the walls of the central courtyard. So large now, her child was, that Drogon draped, more than perched upon the wall.

The gardens were delightfully kept, almost crowded with trimmed shrubs offering a pleasant geometry, and hundreds of flowers gaping up to reach the morning light. Venerable palm trees jutted straight up from the ground and displayed their proud fronds high, for all to see.

The Dragon Queen was expected by now, of course, and it was mere moments before a dozen soldiers in bright silks and leathers trotted in formation from a large, stone arch. At ten paces off, they halted in place when Drogon screeched a sharp warning. When he settled again, the Queen spoke.

"I am Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen," she began.

Once, and not very long ago, she might have gone on... " _The Queen of This and That,"_ she often joked with Missandei. However, her time in the North had borne her a fondness for a more direct manner of speaking, and Daenerys spared the guards her worldly titles.

The men stared up, wide-eyed and quiet, glancing nervously between the glowing red coals of the dragon's eyes, and her own cool green.

"Please pardon our intrusion," she offered. "Subtlety is hardly the strongest suit of dragons... Since our letters have had no luck reaching you, I have come myself to seek an audience with the Prince or Princess of Dorne." _Whoever that is, nowadays,_ Daenerys thought ruefully.

The way the men below gaped, she supposed it must have been odd for them; she had come entirely unannounced, and spoke almost casually, if formally, from atop the back of a beast who could level their city in less than a day. A large and spacious courtyard, it was... but too small to fit Drogon's mass within the walls, even by half.

"I have come alone," she mentioned importantly, "and unarmed... "

The guards took notice of that, and Drogon cut their sidelong glances short with a sharp hiss. Then, the dragon lowered his shoulder slowly to the ground, and Daenerys stepped gracefully down, touching her boots to Dornish soil. In a few long strides, the Queen stood before the commanding officer, relieved that the flight had stripped most of the dust from the outside of her gown, even if the skin beneath still itched.

The commander glanced at the dragon and away, as if unimpressed. He was a lean man, handsome in the way she had heard Dornishmen could be, bearing narrow features and dark eyes, over a short, trimmed beard.

"You wish to speak to the Princess," he asked her, his accent thick, and his eyes keen. _Princess..._ Daenerys nodded, pleased. "To what purpose?" The officer wondered.

"My ancestors failed to conquer Dorne," Daenerys said easily, not missing the beat of surprise on the commander's face. "And they failed in more ways than that... I'm not here to conquer anyone. You may tell your Princess that I wish to invite Dorne into the protection of the Seven Kingdoms, and offer your country justice for the crimes of Cersei Lannister."

The soldiers turned puzzled glances to one another while the officer gave her a long, searching look. Finally, he turned. "Tell the Princess all that you have seen and heard," he said in a velvety voice. Two soldiers darted off, disappearing through a stone arch. The officer did not take his eyes off her, and his remaining men stared openly between her and the dragon.

"Might I ask your name, soldier?" Daenerys asked the commander, hoping she did not sound as awkward as she felt. Most people offered their names to her freely, and now, she realized, it was quite an easy thing to grow accustomed to.

His eyes glinted a bit, and he put an arm before his waist and leaned forward in a half-bow. "I am Arval Gargalen, of the Salt Shore. Right hand to Princess Sarella and General to her armies."

_So he is a nobleman as well as a General..._ Before she could ask anything more, one lone soldier returned, puffing a bit, and mumbled something to his commanding officer's waiting ear.

Arval nodded, and the soldier returned to his formation. "Princess Sarella cannot see you today," the officer declared, and Daenerys blinked back her surprise.

"And why is that?"

"She is unwell," he explained, "But if you remain in Sunspear, she is eager to speak with you soon." _Unwell_ , Daenerys thought with unease. Tyrion had warned her once, that anyone claiming _only_ so much as "unwell" was a bold-faced liar.

"How soon?" Daenerys asked sweetly, but the commander's expression was no softer for it. "As soon as she can, I'm sure," he replied with a frigid civility that jabbed at her pride.

_On purpose, no doubt_... The Dragon Queen held him in a stern, level gaze, until a look of uncertainty flashed on him, and the Dornishman glanced again at Drogon, behind her.

"Very well," she intoned, pulling his attention. "Though I have only a few days to spare, before I must return to my armies... and _end_ this war."

"I will tell the Princess this," Arval Gargalen replied. "If you wish, I will show you now, to your quarters." With a raised hand, the other soldiers were dismissed by their superior.

Taking a breath, Daenerys watched the extra swords and spears march away, and wondered if she were mad, or foolish, to follow the officer. Over her shoulder, Drogon watched carefully, but he seemed at ease enough, so Daenerys gestured for the commander to lead on, and the pair moved through the lush courtyard together.

Arval led her only a short ways into the courtyard, not twenty steps to a low-roofed cottage of red brick, centered in the garden.

"Princess Sarella assumed you would prefer to stay close to your child, and he to you," Arval explained, and she nodded. "Everything inside," he went on, gesturing to the cottage, "is yours, to use and keep. I do not know about Westeros, or where you come from, but in _Dorne_ , guests are treated as family. We ask the same in return, from you and your own..."

A short ways back, Drogon was perched upon the same wall as before, looking like the grandest statue ever carved, if his eyes did not glow crimson flame, while his every breath unleashed a rush of hot wind.

"I assure you, my Lord," she replied sweetly, "my dragon means your country no more harm, than what Dorne would bring to me..." The Queen held his eye until the commander nodded understanding.

"Princess Sarella will send a woman to attend your needs," he said. "And a variety of partners for you to choose from."

"Partners?" Daenerys asked, and realized his meaning just before a sultry smile crept to his lips. Arval looked amused, while he explained.

"Men or women, or both," he said easily, "none want for pleasure, in Dorne. Since your dragon was sighted, I am sure dozens will have come to the palace already, to offer themselves to you. By sunset, there will be hundreds more. My men will ensure all of Sunspear knows that tales of your beauty do not touch sight of it. I will return tonight myself, if you prefer," he added with a wicked smile.

_I suppose Tyrion wasn't exaggerating... "As shameless as the Dothraki,"_ her Hand had warned, _"and more than twice as charming."_

"That's... quite all right," she managed, fighting through a laugh. "... I take all the pleasure I require from my husband," she added, hoping she sounded conversational, despite how odd she felt, sharing such thoughts with a stranger.

Arval still seemed amused, if not surprised. "As you prefer," he said with a half-bow. "I will post my most trusted men outside, for your protection. For now, you must excuse me, I must attend to the Princess. She will meet with you as soon as she can." At that, Arval Gargalen of the Salt Shore turned, and left her.

Daenerys stared after him for a beat, while he vanished to the lushness of the courtyard, then shook her head, displacing the awkwardness of being _left_ by someone, _before_ she had dismissed them... _You are not their Princess, let alone their Queen,_ she reminded herself, striving for patience. _Not yet._

Turning, Daenerys pushed through the door, and after a quick glance to ensure there were no blades lurking in the shadows, she explored her little cottage with great curiosity.

The colors of House Martell splayed everywhere she looked, even on the orange bricks of the walls themselves. Red and gold hung from silk tapestries and curtains, and was finely threaded into thin carpets strewn along the floor. In the spacious front room was a desk, neatly arranged with quill, ink, and a thick sheaf of parchment. A short ways away stood a dark wooden table set with two matching chairs, all draped with silks trimmed in all the colors of the sun.

_There's no hearth,_ she realized, trying to pinpoint what seemed _off_ about the common room. There was hardly a need; not yet noon, and already the air was heavy with heat.

The rest of the cottage was split in half, between bedroom and washroom. The bedroom was as resplendently colorful as the rest, with a large feather bed, tables, and dressers, but otherwise unremarkable.

In the washroom, an unusually large copper tub, empty, and with what appeared to be _seats_ forged straight from the metal sat before a large window. Two guards stood outside, their faces implacable as they stared through the polished glass. Curtains and a hanging rod, she noticed with relief, were set on a small gilded table, by the door. She might have waited for the serving girl, but with a longing glance at the spacious tub, the dusty, unwashed itch on her skin demanded relief, and Daenerys pulled a stool to the window and hung the curtains at once.

When they were set, she offered the guards posted outside a smile, snapped the shades shut, and turned away with a deep shiver.

A thick jet of warm water flooded from the spigot, and before long Daenerys had freed herself of her heavy, sweat-soaked gown and settled herself in the tub. Without Missandei or any of her handmaidens, it was an oddly quiet bath, and thinking of the guards _just_ outside the glass window, she was more aware of her nakedness than usual.

Trying to wash quickly, the splashing drowned the sound of the serving woman until she was bustling through the washroom door, carrying a dark wicker basket.

"Oh," Daenerys blurted, covering herself with a hasty splash. The serving girl observed, and averted her eyes politely.

"The Dornish are not so shy," the girl explained in a thick accent, pulling a crimson gown from the basket and hanging it by the door. _Not a Dornish accent,_ Daenerys thought, not yet able to place the dialect, familiar as it was.

"My name is Araleth," she said, and Daenerys racked her memory for what tongues softened a's and trilled r's. The copper-skinned woman set the basket within reach of the tub and stepped away. Small, labeled vials of perfumed oils and salts lay within, and Daenerys gave the oil of lavender a lingering look before turning her eyes to the serving girl.

Araleth bowed. "I will leave you in private, if Your Grace prefers," she added, her eyes downcast in a broad, pretty face, hands folded before plain white silk. _Your Grace,_ Daenerys thought appreciatively, though she hesitated to read overmuch into flattery.

"It's alright," Daenerys decided, and uncovered herself. "I've grown used to having company," she added more honestly, and the girl offered a slight smile and sat herself on the stool, hands folded upon her lap. "Your accent," Daenerys observed curiously, "Braavosi?"

"Your Grace has a keen ear. I was raised in Braavos by my mother, though we spent more time on the sea than the shores of Braavos."

"A wonderful city, from what I remember," Daenerys said pleasantly. Full of culture and color, with as many monuments, depicting as many gods and beasts of legend as she had ever seen. The Free City, it was called. Founded by slaves, the First Law of Braavos was carved on the great arch over the Long Canal: _None in this city shall ever be slave, thrall, or bondsmen._ That unyielding law had been the reason the Breaker of Chains had never returned.

"Ah, so you have been there," Araleth returned, sounding pointedly unsurprised.

"I lived there for a time," Daenerys replied fondly, "when I was very young. I remember the temples most of all. To this day, I've never seen so many Gods share the same walls."

"Men and Gods live freely, in Braavos," the serving woman said sagely, "All faiths are honored in the Secret City, and the Gods are free to lay the hard path of destiny before those who can bear its burden..." Unsure what she meant, Daenerys only regarded her with a curious look, and Araleth went on softly in the rolling, flared speech of the Braavosi. 

"It was in Braavos that I met a young widow; she sailed from Seaguard to begin her new life, and would not speak of where she had been before. Only that winter had come, for her family... and the widow spoke of other things," Araleth's easy manner had planed off, and her voice was low, dark eyes fixed and serious as she went on.

"Mostly, she speaks of a young girl... A Westerosi who moves as swift and silent as shadow, one who takes the form of a great wolf, and wears the faces of the men she has killed..."

Daenerys' eyes widened. _Arya Stark..._ The serving woman nodded. "Just so..." she intoned. "A girl sends her regards, from the North... How may I serve?" 

****************

A/N: The delay on this update was due to respect for the initial wave of protests for Black Lives Matter movement. I was hesitant to post at all, considering that the fight against police brutality is far from won, but I decided it's better to use the voice I have, after all WWDD (What Would Daenerys Do). 

For more information on **how to protest police brutality in your area** , visit this website:

< https://www.cnet.com/how-to/how-to-find-a-black-lives-matter-protest-in-your-area-this-week/ >

Additionally, if you are for any reason unfit for the front lines, follow this link to read about the many ways **you can help without attending protests** :

< https://www.independent.co.uk/life-style/black-lives-matter-protest-support-george-floyd-donate-petition-a9542576.html >

and < https://www.teenvogue.com/story/support-the-black-lives-matter-movement >

Finally, if you (like me) are financially unfit to donate, this **YouTube stream hosted by Revive Music is donating all Ad proceeds to the NAACP**. You can mute the video and leave it running in the background, and as long as the tab remains open & active, you are contributing. 

< https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WKo8OrBdLz8 >


	49. Dorne (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Alone in Sunspear, Daenerys questions a strange Braavosi woman called Araleth, who claims friendship with Arya._

For three pounding heartbeats, Daenerys stared, keenly aware of how vulnerable she was, in her bath. _Could it be Arya, herself?_ The Queen wondered,half hopeful and half nervous to think that Arya's magic was a great deal stronger than expected, if the girl had managed to get to Dorne as quickly as a dragon.

"Is it you then," the Queen asked finally, "under that face?" But at the question, the Braavosi woman chuckled, and shook her head.

"Many things, I am," Araleth replied, pinching her cheeks with a chagrined smile, "but to be a Faceless Man?" She tugged gently on the skin, grinning, then released and set her hands folded in her lap again, "Even I do not possess such cunning as this."

Reeling, Daenerys regarded the serving woman anew, wondering if it could be the truth, while Araleth sat plainly still on the stool, two paces from the edge of the bath. _Arya said she'd made friends the world over,_ Daenerys recalled, _that they might help me, given the chance..._ But the idea of having someone to _trust_ in Dorne was all too tempting. _If it is true,_ a more hopeful part of her mused, _then Arya already makes for a better Spymaster than Varys,_ and the Queen smiled, and relaxed in her bathwater.

Arya was as clever as women came, and had given a way that she might know friend from pretender. "Her blade," Daenerys asked smoothly, "a girl told me her _friends_ would know it."

"Ahh," Araleth sighed, a light glinting in her dark eyes. She glanced at the covered window, leaned forward as far as her seat would allow, and whispered her answer. "When I first met this girl, she had no blade... only a Needle," the Braavosi replied knowingly, holding her little finger up and touching it beneath her eye.

At that, Daenerys allowed herself to hope, and what remained of her suspicion stood aside, willing to hear the rest without calling for Drogon, who slept soundly, sprawled as he was in the Dornish sun, just beyond the walls of the cottage. _Her answer aside,_ Daenerys supposed, _if Drogon thought my life was at risk, surely he would at least have woken..._

"You will have questions," the Braavosi noted, rising with a pointed slowness and stepping back, hands folded in front. Daenerys nodded.

"Wait for me in the common room," she commanded, and watched the serving woman bow and shut the door behind her, before rising from the bath. The hot, dry air of the cottage sucked the water off her skin nearly as well as the loose length of cloth that had been set out for her.

Daenerys dressed quickly; the crimson silk that Araleth had hung was trimmed in thread of gold, and bore shoulders of hard, dark leather, stretching to cross over her breast and cinching behind at the waist. The sturdiness of the corset was familiar and comforting, but the skirts were loose and light enough to make even _Quarthian_ wear seem snug and heavy, by comparison, and despite the muted light in the washroom, Daenerys could see the shadows of her legs beneath the silk.

_I might've packed better,_ Daenerys thought, _had I not left Winterfell in such a state..._ Her leather trousers and boots, which she usually wore beneath her skirts, lay rumpled and filthy on the sandstone floor; Daenerys gave them a lasting look before slipping gold-trimmed sandals onto bare feet, and turned to a small, rounded looking glass, set upon the wall.

_Could it be so easy?_ Daenerys wondered, hoping a fool did not gaze back at her, from the polished glass. _A proper fool might not look so afraid,_ she thought, schooling her face back to calm. _Arya said that her friends would know Needle by its name..._ But Arya was thousands of miles away, and Daenerys wished she could take more _surety_ from it. In Winterfell, the Queen had asked Arya for the _names_ of her friends, and received a few, along with the warning that not everyone wore their true names so fearlessly as Daenerys Stormborn. _Still, she never mentioned an Araleth..._ A familiar habit brought her eyes over one shoulder, searching for Ser Jorah's counsel, before remembering they would not find him there.

Daenerys' eyes caught her reflection as she turned, and again she forced the worry from her eyes before stepping through the washroom door.

In the front room, Araleth was bustling about, taking food from a large basket set by the door and stocking the larder that stood nearby. The short table was set already with two empty plates, and in the center, a silver tray was loaded with smoked meat, cheese, and figs. Her stomach churned impatiently, while her mind whispered thoughts of poison.

"Your Grace," Araleth offered politely, hardly pausing in her stocking the larder. Daenerys nodded her reply and settled herself down in the head seat, smoothing her skirts while her eyes stayed fixed on the serving tray. 

_I should have to eat something eventually,_ Daenerys thought, reaching hesitantly for a fig. She glanced again at Araleth, who hummed an unfamiliar tune while she moved about. _I suppose if she meant to murder me, she could have done it well enough, in the bath..._ But as Araleth shut the larder doors and turned, Daenerys pulled her hand away and settled it in her lap, leaving the food untouched.

"How tiresome it is," Araleth said morosely, moving to the edge of the table. "To worry so wisely of poison, and so often..." The sympathy in her voice sounded genuine enough, but Daenerys said nothing more of it.

"How do you know our... _friend_?" The Queen asked, regarding the copper-skinned woman keenly. The washroom had been dim, but now she could see that Araleth was older than she thought. Not yet aged, but the beginnings of a long life wrinkled at her eyes and lips, and Daenerys was certain she was the younger of the two by ten years, at least.

"It is quite a long story," Araleth said in apology, "until recently, I did not know it for a story worth telling. Bits and pieces of destiny, scattered over a long and humble life... But it is the truth, and one you may even believe, if you are as touched by the Gods as some say."

"Tell me everything," Daenerys commanded.

"I met a girl twice," the Braavosi began obediently, "The first was many years ago aboard _The Titan's Daughter_. I was only a deckhand then, under the command of Captain Ternesio Terys," she said the name with great respect. "We had docked at the Salt Pans, and a girl offered my captain a Braavosi coin, and she spoke the words ' _Valar Morghulis_... _'_ Honor bound us then, to bring the girl to the House of Black and White. Captain Ternesio is a good man, and by the laws of Braavos, he did not ask questions... but I think to myself, _'Ah, this young girl is young, and not of Braavos. She cannot know what she seeks...'_ And for this, I worry for the child. On the voyage to Braavos, I do what I can to earn her trust... there was little left to her, but I persisted. She gave me no name, but she would speak freely the names of her enemies, most often of a Lord called Walder Frey, whom she hated most fairly, and," Araleth added with a laugh, "...I thought her so _imaginative,_ when she told me of her wolf-dreams..."

_I could almost wonder if it's the same Arya,_ Daenerys thought suspiciously. The girl she had met at Winterfell was more _silent_ than quiet, unless asking a question, and while the elusive wolf-girl offered her enemies' secrets freely, she was rare to speak of her own. _Jon said she only needed more time to trust me,_ Daenerys reminded herself, _that she wasn't always so careful with strangers, until her time with the Faceless Men..._

The Braavosi woman went on, "I watched her go, thinking I would wonder to the end of my days, what manner of death she found at the House of Black and White," Araleth went on. "Years pass, and I stop wondering. But when ships begin to vanish from the Narrow Sea, Captain Ternesio says _The Titan's Daughter_ must sail as far West as she can, to the Sunset Sea and Ironman's Bay... To _Seaguard_ , where I meet the widow I spoke of," Araleth said seriously, "This widow was not the _first_ to speak of a massacre at The Twins, but she was the first to speak as if she was _there..._ She said a Lord _Walder Frey_ was killed by a girl, dark of hair and eye, who wore Lord Frey's face as her own, as if by the magic of shadows... This widow tells _me_ what the girl told _her_... That ' _Winter had come for House Frey..._ ' and says that the girl is rumored to take the skin of a wolf, as well as the faces of dead men." Araleth chuckled and shook her head. "What secrets they must hold, at the House of Black and White..."

"She found you at Seaguard, I assume," Daenerys mentioned.

"Just so," Araleth replied with a grin. "Not a moment after I show this poor widow below deck, a girl appears before me. I suspect she followed the widow, to ensure the poor girl found a safe passage... and what odds that the passage for the poor widow was as safe as a girl once was herself, aboard _The Titan's Daughter,"_ Araleth laughed. "The God of Death wears Many Faces, but only one mask," Araleth hedged mysteriously, and answered herself with a delighted grin, " _Coincidence_. At Seaguard, our _friend_ asked me her questions, and finding my answers honest, a girl offered me her service. I offered mine in return," Araleth finished simply.

"And why would you do that?" Daenerys asked.

The Braavosi narrowed her eyes and furrowed her brow. "You told me you lived in Braavos," she said, as if it were a question. "You must know how we Braavosi honor the Faceless."

"Yes, but why?" Daenerys asked. Her time in Braavos had been short, and faded to long years of memory. Arya was even less forthcoming about the details of her training than her warging, and despite Daenerys' consulting of books and counselors, the Queen had not yet found more than a vague description of the Faceless Men. _Braavosi assassins, and magic users trained at the House of Black and White,_ she knew... but an answer as to what _purpose_ their blades and craft served remained to be found.

Araleth replied, "The Secret City of Braavos owes _eight-hundred years_ of freedom to the Faceless Men," she said, as if it were obvious, and seeing that the Queen did not understand, went on seriously, with none of her usual flair. "They are the discriminate blades of the God of Death... Protectors of the First Law."

" _None in this city shall ever be slave, thrall, or bondsmen,_ " Daenerys quoted, and Araleth nodded proudly. "Just so, Your Grace." 

_I had wondered how Braavos retained its freedom for so long,_ she mused. For nearly a thousand years, Braavos had been surrounded by slave trade, yet not a single record existed to say slavers had ever attempted to reclaim the city for their foul trade. 

"Do you know of any others?" Daenerys asked, curious if the network might be expanded, if that was truly the creed of the Faceless Men.

Araleth laughed, "Even this faithful Braavosi was _humbled,_ to learn they were real. My eyes saw, and my heart had always hoped, but still I sometimes wonder if I am mad, to believe it is so."

The Queen nodded, for she understood more than most. Often, even as she watched her children, or touched the heat of their scales and the sharpness of their spikes, she still wondered how it was possible that they could be real. "I'm almost inclined to believe you," she admitted. "But if you _are_ who you claim to be, you must know I should require some sort of proof." Araleth nodded, and Daenerys was stern when she went on. "Our... _friend_ ," she said, carefully avoiding a name, "... _never_ told me about you, and you must understand how vulnerable I am here."

"Yes, Your Grace," Araleth replied, unwounded. "I will offer any assurance I can provide."

The Queen glanced down, wondering how else she might catch the woman in a lie, if there were one to be found. In doing so, Daenerys set her eyes on the empty plate before her. Standing, she loaded it high with meat, bread, cheese, and figs, set it before Araleth, and poured a glass of water from the silver pitcher. The Queen stepped back, folded her hands and waited with hard eyes.

Seemingly unbothered, Araleth raised her glass. "To our fortune," she said, and drank deeply before setting to work on the meal. While the Braavosi sampled each portion, Daenerys' stomach lurched, but she made herself wait until all parts of the meal had been tasted.

"I thought you might put me before your dragon's mercy," Araleth said, wiping her mouth and offering the plate back to her. "I have read that, in the eyes of a dragon, one's past is as pages in a book."

"I expect that's true," Daenerys replied fondly. _And I may yet,_ she thought. The Queen turned away from the plate Araleth offered, and instead took up the empty one. The Braavosi chuckled, taking her meal back and munching happily while Daenerys served herself a hearty portion, fresh from the tray, poured a glass of water, and sat down at the head seat.

"Tell me again," the Queen commanded, taking a long drink from her glass and fighting back a shudder as the liquid rushed down her dusty throat. She popped a fig into her mouth, chewed, and felt it settle into the hollow of her stomach. "Everything. Do not stop until you've told me _how_ you came to serve Princess Sarella, and why she sent _you_ to my side."

The Queen ate slowly while Araleth told the whole of it over again, not missing a detail she had missed, and adding more besides. Araleth met Arya twice. The first time was years ago, as any deckhand might meet a passenger aboard their vessel; she worried for her, as any Braavosi might worry for such a young girl seeking such a place as the House of Black and White, but bound as she was by the laws of Braavos, said nothing to explicitly dissuade Arya from her path, and left her there. Years passed, and Araleth met her again, as the first mate to the same captain, sailing colder, safer waters than what Euron Greyjoy had brought to plague Narrow Sea in recent years.

"From Seaguard," Araleth went on, caught up to where she had left off, "we sailed South along the coast. I gaze over the sea and feel, for the first time... that I am trapped," she laughed, " _trapped..._ on the deck of the ship," she said again, as if it were impossible. "I served with Captain Ternesio twenty years, and I _never_ feel this way. So I come to Dorne."

"Why Dorne?"

"My mother had died, and my place in Braavos with her," Araleth replied sadly. "My father was a Dornishman, though a dead one, and Captain Ternesio did not have to sail out of his way to leave me here..." Araleth sighed. "Twenty years I sailed under him, seven as his first mate... I told Ternesio that I did not need his parting fare to live well, in Dorne, but he insisted I take it, if only to bring more life to the little port of Sunspear. What sweet, forgiving waters the Dornish are blessed to border, and _wasted._ So I build three ships, choose three good Captains, and send them to trade... Princess Sarella," she mentioned importantly, "holds interest in returning the Rhoynar of Dorne to their seafaring ways, and so I found myself in her counsel. As to why she sends _me_ to your side," Araleth hedged, and shrugged, "I cannot say. I suppose she must trust my judgment."

"And now I'm supposed to trust you, as well?" Daenerys asked sweetly. _Just as Arya supposedly once came to trust you..._

"In time, yes, I hope that you may," Araleth replied, unruffled, and rose to gather their empty plates. Daenerys watched her stack them on the counter.

"Where is the Princess?" The Queen asked, "A man named Arval told me she was _unwell_."

"Arval Gargalen, of the Salt Shore," Araleth said airily, "a proud man, and an honorable one, if his men are to be believed. He is the Princess' lover... As for Sarella herself, I expect she is close enough to see the walls of your cottage." The Braavosi glanced at the closest window, and edged closer to the table. "The Princess is with child," she whispered. "All of Dorne knows this, and Sarella fears the child will burn with her, should she decide that the Dragon Queen is _no_ Queen, over Dorne..."

"I see," Daenerys managed quietly, wondering what she might do, if all her risk and efforts in Dorne were to amount to nothing. "But... her child has committed no crimes," she added, more sternly. "I am not a Queen _known_ for the slaughter of innocent children."

"Are you not?" Araleth asked, and held her hands out as Daenerys' eyes widened. "I mean no offense, Your Grace... I only mean to explain what the Princess has heard of _Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons_... It is said by some that hundreds of children die at your hands, when you take Meereen."

" _That is a lie_ ," Daenerys spat, outraged that such an old, familiar falsehood had come back to foul her ears. "The Wise Masters and the Sons of the Harpy would have all their allies believe that it was my fault," she hissed, " _My fault_... that they _crucified_ one hundred and sixty-three children, just to send me a message..."

"I will tell the Princess this," Araleth promised before she could go on. "She is quite eager to learn if she can trust you," the Braavosi added, in a manner that seemed almost... _comforting_ , Daenerys realized. "Who could hope for a more powerful ally than the Mother of Dragons, a more trustworthy friend than the Breaker of Chains? But... as Your Grace understands," Araleth smiled, " _trust_ is a hard-won thing, in this world."

"So it is," the Queen replied tiredly, glancing around the room. Her eyes caught the desk, set with quill, ink, and a sheaf of papers. "Leave me for a moment," Daenerys said, looking back at the Braavosi and rising from her seat. The crimson silk swished softly about her legs. "Return before dusk, and I should be grateful if you would return with a pair of breeches and boots."

Araleth looked puzzled. "May I ask why, Your Grace?"

"A Queen must know her people, if she is to rule them," Daenerys declared, "I can't very well come to know the Dornish, shut away from them here."

Araleth smiled eagerly, and bowed. "As Your Grace commands," she intoned, and gathered the empty plates before letting herself out the front door. Daenerys turned, and set her eyes on the curtains, drawn shut over the front window.

_I am no mouse, caught in a trap..._ Daenerys resolved, snapping open the shades. Two guards, just outside, took notice and straightened at their post _..._ _Nor a snake in the grass,_ the Queen raised her hand in a wave and offered the guards a smile, drawing in a long breath of warm, fragrant air from the lush courtyard. _I am the blood of the dragon... and the dragon does not hide._


	50. Dorne (III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Dorne, Daenerys ventures from the palace of Sunspear to converse with the Dornish people. The Braavosi Araleth offers startling news, and an unexpected visitor takes the Queen by surprise._

The Dornish heat gained to a heavy blaze by noon, and demanded that Daenerys stretch wearily upon the large feather bed, nestled in the northern, shadier part of the cottage. The bed was lain with silks of red and gold, as comfortable a bed as any she had felt, and the welcomed heat eased the soreness in her muscles, tight and fatigued after so many hours on dragonback. Missing the comfort of Jon beside her, she curled to one side of the bed, marveling at how far she had flown, and so quickly.

 _From Winterfell to Horn Hill, then to Dorne..._ she twirled her mother's pearl ring as her eyes grew heavy. _At least_ _a thousand leagues, if not two,_ she guessed, _and in little more than a day..._ Her eyes slid shut, and the sweltering warmth seemed to press her deeper into the comfort of the feather bed. _I wonder if Aegon the Conqueror ever flew so far in only a day..._

_... "I built them for you," her husband accused, his dark eye growing darker, "and before our nobles' children can soak their smallclothes, you pollute the Water Gardens with your stray beasts!" The Prince shook his head, scowling. "You must know that they are outraged... It pains me that I must continue to pray for the day, when the Princess Consort of Dorne will ask permission, and not forgiveness."_

_The Princess listened, keeping her eyes fixed on the pink marble set within shimmering pools. "You commanded they be built for me, that is true," Daenerys replied carefully, leaving out that her husband had not done any of the actual work himself, or even paid the builders much more than half of what they deserved, "and for that I am grateful. But they are children," she corrected firmly, turning to look at him at last, "Not beasts... Look at them, my Prince."_

_Reaching out, Daenerys waited for her husband to take her hand before turning to the window. Below, in the Water Gardens, scores of children played naked, or in plain smallclothes. Merry and gleeful, they were, with all their outerwear stripped and cast about the Gardens, laying in piles of colorful silk and plain, drab cottons._

_"Tell me now," she dared softly, "Tell me, which ones are your nobles' children, and which are the beasts?"..._

"Who is it?" Daenerys murmured, sitting up before she realized she had woken. Halfway through the door, Araleth started and ducked her head.

"Your Grace. Apologies for disturbing you," the Braavosi woman stepped the rest of the way through and folded her hands. The Queen regarded her warily. "It is past dusk," Araleth explained, "and when supper had cooled, I began to worry that you slept _too_ soundly... _with the fish_ , as we sailors say," she added with a wink. "I am relieved to find you well. I will leave Your Grace to dress." At that, Araleth set a pair of dark leather breeches and boots on the table and ducked back through the door.

Feeling rejuvenated from the nap, Daenerys splashed the day's heat from her skin and dressed quickly, taking an extra moment to smooth the crimson silks of her gown, and adjust the leathers over her breast. She braided her hair back, one braid to either side threading into the length, and pinned behind her neck with a silver clip.

The Queen had kept her bedroom shades drawn while she dozed, but the common room was lit with the soft hue of a desert dusk, and the sky beyond the windows had begun to purple. Araleth was by the table, setting two empty stone mugs by a kettle, and caught her eye.

"In Braavos," Araleth noted pointedly, "it is considered honorable for the guest to pour for the host, as a gesture of thanks... But in Dorne," she went on, in a conflicted tone that did not match her smile, "it is polite that the _host_ pours first, to further honor the guest. I have found myself at home in both of these places, and as for who pours for whom," she summed, gesturing to the kettle with a smile, "I find myself without preference."

 _A clever woman,_ Daenerys thought, and not for the first time. _I only hope her cleverness will be to my benefit, and not my undoing..._ Still, the Queen smiled, poured both mugs full and raised hers in toast. "To our fortune," Daenerys said easily, as Araleth had done the night prior. The Braavosi seemed delighted, and returned the gesture before taking the first sip, while Daenerys followed half a beat after.

The sharp, spiced tea had no need of honey for sweetness, as the Northern brew did, and invigorated the senses even before it touched the tongue. _I shall have to purchase a wagon's worth, and send it to King's Landing, when this is done,_ she thought, swishing the dark liquid appreciatively in her mug, enjoying the rich scent that wafted from it. _Though too sweet for Missandei, I imagine,_ she thought with a pang of loneliness.

"Does it suit you?" Araleth asked, of the tea. The Queen assured her that it was delightful, and thanked the woman for having it ready.

"What my mother might have said," Araleth chuckled, "had she been blessed to live so long as to hear, that the Mother of Dragons herself had poured for me, and toasted to my fortune..." She spoke as if she was honored, as well as awed, but the Queen had grown used to sidestepping such flattery from strangers.

" _Valar dohaeris,_ " Daenerys replied, and Araleth grinned widely and touched her finger beneath her eye. "Just so," she agreed.

"What was she like, your mother?" Daenerys asked, serving two plates of supper from the tray, and offering one to Araleth, who took her plate with a faraway look, and sampled each part as she replied.

"She had all the wisdom of the ocean," Araleth said fondly, "the rage of storms, and the whimsy of the winds in her heart. She died at sea, and so she died at peace... After all, it is not the dead who mourn," Araleth sighed, resigned, "but those they leave behind."

"May I ask what happened to her?"

The Braavosi's brow furrowed. "Euron Greyjoy cut her throat and threw her into the sea. He pressed her crew, and claimed _The Red Bastion_ for the Iron Fleet."

The Queen failed to hide her shock; if that was the truth, it would mean the woman's mother had died far more recently than she thought. "I'm sorry," she said first, and Araleth obliged her with an empty nod. "It seems we have an enemy in common," Daenerys added, "I imagine your mother's ship is docked at Dragonstone, with the rest of the Iron Fleet... If it survives the wars to come, I would have it returned to you."

" _She_ ," Araleth corrected with a chagrined smile, "A ship is no more an _it_ than the one who sails her... All the same," she went on, her voice dropping, "if _The Red Bastion_ should find her way back to me, by your command... I- I would be in your debt."

Usually the Braavosi spoke with a flared air of mystery, as many of her countrymen did, but the catch in her voice seemed as genuine as the humility. _If she is a liar,_ the Queen supposed, _she's quite a talented one._

"If... _she_ survives the war, it will be done," Daenerys promised with a soft smile.

"You have my thanks... Forgive me," Araleth breathed, rising to gather their empty plates and dabbing her eye. "Your Grace will want to see Sunspear before night falls, I am sure. If you prefer an escort, the Princess has offered Arval Gargalen of the Salt Shore, and his finest men to accompany us."

 _So Sarella does not plan to attend herself..._ "When am I to meet the Princess?"

"When she has decided you are honest, and not before, I expect..." Araleth glanced around, and leaned further forward on the table. "Sarella has not been the Princess for more than three turns of the moon," Araleth informed quietly, "She has the only true claim, and the support of the Salt Shore, Lemonwood, and the Tor, but most of Dorne is perhaps more uncertain of her than of you." Daenerys' brow shot up, and Araleth explained. "All the world has heard of the strength and mercy of Daenerys Stormborn, Breaker of Chains... Who then, compared to you, is Sarella Sand, the Essosi-born bastard of Oberyn Martell?"

"I suppose I'll have to find out another day," Daenerys sighed, rising from her seat. _There is time yet to spare in Dorne,_ she thought, allowing the woman another day or two of hesitance before the Queen would let her impatience win out. _The Princess is lucky,_ Daenerys thought as she moved for the door, _lucky that I have not forgotten how it felt, to be afraid..._

Araleth held the door, and they moved into the courtyard together, where Arval Gargalen waited alongside six men and eight horses; the animals were slim and tall, bearing gleaming coats in every color known to sand. The palest of the horses, and the tallest, Arval led forward, and offered the reins.

"She's beautiful," the Queen remarked as she took the leathers into hand, and brushed the other down the mare's mane of silken ivory. The mare nickered a bit, then settled. Looking decidedly unimpressed, Arval of the Salt Shore offered his hand, and Daenerys took it, hoisting herself to a mount. Araleth followed, taking a chestnut that nearly matched the mare for size, and the soldiers followed suit behind them.

The lush garden gave way to brick, and a stone arch approached; the portcullis rose, and outside, the crowd began to chirp, and moved close when the Queen and her escort emerged. Down from the palace ran a straight, wide road of red brick, sloping gently towards the sweet turquoise of the Summer Sea. Dornishmen and women crowded as close as they could without being knocked aside by the horses, and they leered as she passed, in gladness and suspicion, and every impression between the two.

Familiar to the scrutiny, and relieved that the Dornish seemed not _half_ so unhappy to see the Dragon Queen in their country as the Northerners, Daenerys held her chin high, and returned every smile and wave she glimpsed among them. But as the brick road led on, towards the city, the crowd thickened, Daenerys grew more grateful for the guards, especially Arval, who silenced each errant heckler hidden in the crowd with sharp, searching eyes.

"Where would you like to go?" Araleth asked merrily, as a wide fork approached in the gently sloping brick.

Daenerys had no need to consider her answer, "I'd like to see the Water Gardens."

"Then you must," Araleth agreed, and turned the party North, back up a gentle, sloping hill that drew gradually closer to the sea. "This is a fitting place for you. The Water Gardens were built for your ancestor, the Princess Consort of Dorne. She was your namesake, yes?"

"She was, though I don't know much about her..." Daenerys replied, content as ever to keep what Jon had called her _Green Dreams_ private; the dreams had been torturous at Dragonstone, where so many foul memories of the Targaryens clung to the walls, and the Queen had often avoided sleeping so that she would not have to live the crimes of her ancestors. They had eased some, after Jon had arrived, and more still when she left the dire castle behind... "My brother only told me that King Daeron married the first Daenerys to the Prince of Dorne to win the country, and that all of House Martell hails from her line."

"Then you know nothing of her," Arval chimed, gruff and sudden, and she glanced at him in surprise, "that watery legacy is unbefitting of Princess Daenerys." Her look gladdened to one of appreciation, but his eyes warmed little for it. "Do not mistake history for flattery," he said evenly, "...but your ancestor's memory is held dearly, to Dorne. It was Princess Daenerys who opened the Water Gardens to the lowborn children, as well as the high, so that they might grow as equals."

"A wise decision," Daenerys replied fondly, recalling the dream that had shown her the same truth. "What else do you know about her?"

"Princess Daenerys brought down the Three-Fold Wall," Araleth chimed in, "which had long separated the palace of Sunspear and the upper rings of the city, where only the wealthiest of Dorne had lived, in the shelter of the Prince's thumb."

"I imagine they loved that," Daenerys replied with a grin.

"Just so," the Braavosi laughed, "Yet is it written in the Prince's own hand that, before the last of his days ran dry, even those who had spit the Princess' name could see the peace she had forged in Dorne; now there were friendships that spanned _years_ , between highborn and low; children who had grown and played together, in the Water Gardens."

The brick path leveled some, and rounded into a pavilion that gazed over the red hills and dazzlingly blue water of the sea, lit afire in the setting sun. Further up the hill, the distant glee of children echoed from the arched entryway of an open stone acropolis, set high on the hill, which she knew would stretch back and around the pools. "It will be good to see them again," Daenerys replied dreamily.

"You have been here before?" Araleth asked, and Daenerys recovered herself before she could hesitate. "Only when I first arrived," she replied, as if it were obvious, "Even from dragonback, they are a wondrous sight."

"But then," Arval said smoothly, "what sight could ever appear unpleasant, from such a lofty view?" Arval gazed at the sunset, shining red over the sparkling blue waves; of course he had meant the question rhetorically, but his affront grated her, and not for the first time.

The Queen halted the party at the edge of the pavilion, and fixed Arval with a cool stare.

"... The Army of the Dead," Daenerys answered, "overwhelming our defenses, and washing away my _khalasar_ and Unsullied like a flash flood, while my husband and my children and I _fail_ to keep them from swarming the walls of Winterfell."

At a loss, Arval stared at her with a furrowed brow, and she returned the befuddled look with an unflinching stare. _Every_ house had been called by Jon, to aid the fight against the Dead, but only the Northern ones had rallied to the call; Daenerys knew firsthand that the Great War was a difficult thing to believe– and impossible to understand– unless you had seen the Army for yourself, but having done just so, she cared decidedly little for Arval's thoughts on matter.

"... Not nearly so pleasant a view as the Water Gardens, I'm sure," Daenerys summed neatly. The Princess' lover faltered for a reply, and she turned to Araleth. "Shall we?"

Without waiting, she urged her mare up the last hill, and Araleth kept stride while Arval and the rest of the escort fell behind. The crowd had followed, of course, trailing in droves just behind the soldiers, but if Arval was half as dutiful as he was smug, his men would hold the people from following until she commanded otherwise.

"Is it true then," Araleth asked as they approached, "the Whitewalkers and the Army were real, all this time?"

"I didn't believe it myself, until I saw them. But yes," she said sadly, feeling cold to even remember the Long Night. "They were as real as my dragons... real enough to slay seventy-thousand of us, before Jon and I destroyed the Night King."

Araleth was quiet for a pause, as they pulled their mounts to a halt. The Queen had decided she had no choice but to care little, if others believed their tales of the Great War or not; if nothing else, Araleth was polite, or perhaps uncertain enough not to voice her disbelief aloud, and as the hill crested, Daenerys found herself more interested in the Water Gardens than the Great War.

The sandstone acropolis was handsomely plain, except for where it was trimmed with a decorative frieze; suns carved of stone plucked along it, one after the other, and centered above the great stone arch was another sun, cast in gold, blazing in the sunset, while a dragon of polished copper coiled lovingly around it.

Swinging off her mount, Daenerys passed beneath the arch to find a floor of pink marble strewn with little outfits of silk and cotton, and a soft smile brushed her lips. The patio was set with tables and chairs, some occupied by men and women grown, who turned their eyes from the children as soon as she entered. The Queen nodded respect to them without pause, and continued past marble patio to well-trodden earth, which stretched between pools of still more pink stone; the larger pools sparkled in the evening sun, and older children in smallclothes soaked in friendly groups, while the smaller pools were cast in the shade of laden fruit trees, where the younger ones played, naked as their name day.

"It's the Dragon Queen!" one of the children piped, though the immediate commotion it caused forbade her to know which. They all seemed to abandon their leisure and play at once, in favor of reaching her side as quickly as their bare feet would allow. A great smile bloomed on her, and a hundred questions must have been asked before she heard one properly enough to answer.

"Will your dragon come too?" The first boy to reach her demanded, his eyes alight.

"Perhaps," the Queen replied with a wicked smile, "Drogon was asleep in the palace courtyard, last I saw of him. You could come and see, if you like, but I should say," she crouched lower, and spoke as if in secret, "even _I_ would hesitate to try and wake him."

The children glanced among each other, nervous and delighted at once. Daenerys strolled among the Water Gardens and answered perhaps a hundred questions about her dragons, until finally one of the older youths– a tall, copper skinned boy, halfway to manhood– stepped forward and asked, "Will you set your dragons on Dorne, if the Princess refuses to call you Queen?" The others quieted to listen, and Daenerys' smile fell briefly.

"I've no reason to," she replied in an easy manner, "I've made no enemies in Dorne," she spoke as if it were settled, and the boy nodded, red with relief. "Apologies," he offered under a bashful grin. "My mother says you are good and generous, my father calls you vain, and vengeful..." he explained, and by his speech and manner, she knew him for highborn.

"What do you think?" Daenerys asked.

The boy blushed again, and ducked his head, his brown curls bounced when he brought it up again, and grinned at her. "I think that if I can win your favor... you may let me ride the dragon."

It was far from the last laugh she shared with the children of the Water Gardens, and before she realized the time, the sun fell behind the horizon, on her second day in Dorne. The Queen had meant to allow the people in, the grown men and women who had followed her escort here, but the twilight was waning, and there would be no time before dark to see as much as a few of them. _An address will have to do,_ the Queen decided, making her way back through the Gardens to the pink marble acropolis, bidding farewell to the children as she went.

The crowd had thinned some, outside the Water Gardens, but still hundreds of men and women craned up to see her. Arval and his men stood dutifully before them, at ease and chatting familiarly, until she emerged.

"I must apologize," she began, "for I meant to meet more of you today. I've never known an evening to pass so quickly, or so pleasantly as it has done tonight, in the Water Gardens..." There were wisened nods and murmurs of assent, and she smiled. "I will return tomorrow," Daenerys declared, "and the day after, so that you might come to know me better, and I you. If the people of Dorne are half as charming as the children you've raised, I am sure I'll be delighted," Daenerys finished, meaning every word for truth.

The crowd seemed to accept it, if only for the lateness of the hour, and dispersed with only a little urging from Arval's men. By then, Daenerys had mounted, and Araleth had returned to her side; she noticed that the Braavosi seemed paler than usual, her mouth drawn and tight, knuckles white on the reigns, while her eyes held a faraway look.

"Are you alright?" Daenerys asked, and Araleth seemed to start, then grinned quickly.

Araleth held her hands up, fingers spread wide, and stained to bright crimson. "Blood oranges," she explained with a laugh, "it has been some time since I had any fresh from the tree, and I indulged."

The Queen chuckled, and a glance at her own hands showed a pink tinge at her fingertips. "I had quite a few myself," she replied, urging her mare down the hill, towards the palace. They chatted a little as they rode, quiet pleasantries comparing their time in the Water Gardens.

When they reached the palace courtyard, Drogon was exactly where he had been, asleep over the wall, but now he had a dozen guards about him; half faced the dragon, while the others faced away, to ward away any who might attempt to wake him. Daenerys wondered what would happen to one who tried, but shook the thought off. She thanked the guards and dismissed them, politely ignoring the uncertain glances they cast at Arval before moving off.

When they had dismounted, the Queen thanked Araleth and Arval both, and requested they return in the late morning, so that they might reach the Water Gardens before the heat. Araleth assured that she would, and glared at Arval, when he insisted that he must first get the permission of the Princess.

"Very well," the Queen replied. "You are dismissed then," she told him, and turned to Araleth. "Until tomorrow," she offered more kindly, and pushed through the door.

The quiet of the cottage was welcome, even after a day she might call delightful, if she were more certain of her safety in Dorne. _Safe enough so far,_ she supposed, smiling at the stains on her fingertips left by the oranges; at least a dozen children had offered them as gifts, and after eating herself overfull, she had been forced to offer them away as gifts to other children, who each insisted it was the sweetest fruit they had ever tasted.

Still, there was something about it all that seemed too _easy_ , and Daenerys slipped the letter she had written to Jon and Arya from the pocket near her breast. The rolled parchment turned over in her hands, and she slipped it away again, opting to wait a little longer into the night before she sent it off with Drogon. Pleasantly fatigued, she stretched upon the bed and sniffed the sweet red stain on her fingertips.

She must have dozed, for her eyes opened to a darkened cottage, lit with silver splashes of moonlight that streamed from the windows. Rousing herself, she slipped her boots on and made for the door at once.

Daenerys peered around into the cool air of the Dornish midnight. Within the moonlit courtyard, each frond and shrub seemed as shadowed as the lion's den that she had found on the sands of Dorne, but there was one shadow in the courtyard, larger and higher than the rest, and her feet carried her eagerly to his side.

Drogon was still draped so that half of his mass lay within the walls, and slept as soundly as he had for the last two days. Daenerys brushed her hand across his cheek, smiling when he whistled softly in sleep. Pulling away, she slipped the scroll she had written to Jon and Arya from the breast of her gown.

"I need to be sure it reaches them," she told Drogon in a murmur, "and _only_ them..." The dragon did not stir, and the red coals of his eyes stayed buried under heavy lids. 

"Drogon," she said, more sternly, and when he would not wake, she pushed with both hands against his head, trying to rouse him. With a wearied whine, he pulled his snout away and tucked it beneath his wing; the outer edge of it struck sharply against the ground by her feet, pushing her back a step.

Drogon sank deeper into sleep, and she stared in frustration a beat, the scroll that she _must_ send clutched in her aching hand, then released. _How tired he must be,_ she knew, as her own body still ached from their long journey, and Drogon had been the one to actually fly, all that way. _I suppose you're no more a raven than I am,_ she thought, and turned away.

 _I'll have to trust Araleth to send it off,_ she decided unhappily, and in the same thought knew she must watch the woman send it off in person, with the seal intact. _The Braavosi claimed she had sailed for twenty years, and served as First Mate,_ Daenerys recalled, _if that's true, she should be able to send a bird as well as any Maester..._

 _"She could send it anywhere,"_ Ser Jorah might have warned her, _"You'd have no way of knowing where it went, once she sends it off..."_ But her loyal Knight had been perhaps overcautious, and always less than eager to trust that strangers could prove themselves friends, given the chance...

Tyrion might advise that she write a false letter, and have the Braavosi send that one first, to see what came of it, before trusting her with any real information, but there was little time to send _one_ letter by any ordinary bird, let alone two or more... _I shall have to ask Sam to teach me how to send my own ravens,_ she decided with a sigh, nearing the arched stone above her cottage door.

A sudden shadow came with a short scream from behind, and Daenerys ducked and turned with a gasp, but saw nothing. A fluttering sound brought her eyes around again, and atop the arch, an enormous black bird stilled quickly, and looked knowingly into her eyes.

There could be no mistaking it, nor the white spot on its forehead, let alone that it was thrice the size of any ordinary bird. _The Three-Eyed Raven..._

In the glow of the moon, she could just make out a rounded object clasped in the bird's beak. The Raven raised its wings and lofted gently to the ground, some few paces from her. The great black bird set the rounded object carefully down, then pecked and scratched roughly at the earth, while Daenerys moved over to watch with wide eyes.

The Raven paid her no mind, not even when she knelt and picked the hard, white and black thing up to examine it. A film of black brushed onto her thumb, revealing a bright crimson beneath the soot, rich and red and gleaming, like a fresh wound.

 _A Weirwood seed..._ The Raven stilled, and she glanced over. It cawed once, sharply, and she offered the seed back with an open hand.

The oversized bird took it delicately into its beak, hopped twice to the hole it had dug, and set it gently within before scratching loose earth back over it. The Raven hopped back to her familiarly, turning its head and quorking. For a moment she stared, until it pecked her left hand with a gentle impatience.

Curled fingers slowly released the letter she had meant to send with Drogon, and she offered it over; the Three-Eyed Raven snapped it up at once, and flew off, vanishing to the void that hung amongst the stars.

***

**A/N: OKAY so I am actually really proud of this one and I am sooooo eager to hear what you guys think! :D**


	51. Kings and Queens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _While a storm gathers on the Narrow Sea, Missandei confronts Grey Worm about the realities concerning their future, in the East. Ferrying the Northern and Unsullied armies, Yara commands the Dragon Queen's new flagship._

...

It was high noon, somewhere beyond the gathering storm; the winds had swept from north and east, from the Shivering Sea, and within an hour had consumed the sky, as if by divine right. _The Shivering Sea,_ Missandei thought with a shudder, and hugged her dark cloak tighter. It defied all logic, but the Eastern Lady could not ignore the irritating idea; that even now, as she sailed south in the dead of spring, the ruthless winds of the North were determined to pursue her. 

_At least I am free to escape this storm,_ she recalled, tearing her eyes from the unnerving clouds to the waves, but found little more comfort in the black swells. The longer the wind blew, the better she remembered the constant shriek of the Long Night, wailing just outside the thin stone walls of her prison-chamber at Castle Cerwyn, and Missandei was often glad for the occasional bark of Captain Yara’s command, louder than even the wind, screaming over beam and sail of _The Dragon’s Mercy_. 

Wrapped in dark furs, Missandei faced into the gale and gazed East, searching for any sign of an unfamiliar ship through water and wind, and aching for the hot, sunny shores of home that lay beyond the two. As if he were not there at all, Grey Worm stood stiff and silent at his post, a pace away; muted and withdrawn, as he had been since the former slaves had learned that their Queen _would_ send them both home to Mereen, and gladly... not only as husband and wife, but as _King and Queen_ of the East, if they should choose it.

 _How else does he expect the peace we won in the East to endure,_ she wondered again, casting him a coy glance, and turning back to the wind when he would not meet her eye. _Meereen was halfway to ruin even before we left, and the Second Sons alone will not dissuade bloodshed for much longer..._ The Freedmen, Missandei knew, would fare little better when it came to amounting their own defense against the so-called Masters’ inevitable revolt. With proper command, the Eastern Lady knew that the Freedmen _could_ be brave and strong… but uninspired, the common people were less useful than cattle, and even more prone to panic.

She spared another glance at Grey Worm, her eyes tight as she recalled the unraveling state of the East. It was plain to her, as well as Queen Daenerys, that if _someone_ the Meereenese people trusted did not take command of the city and all its territories, the East would be lost before the year turned, and though Missandei had expected a humble sort-of _hesitance_ from Grey Worm, the overt _silence_ he had kept on the matter was prolonged, even for him. 

Missandei raised her chin and spoke clearly into the wind, “You were the first to suggest that we return home, to live in the East... together.”

“To live in peace, _kessa,_ ” Grey Worm replied, his voice a dutiful drone under motionless eyes, fixed and forward. “After our Queen’s war is won. Until then, all Unsullied have sworn to her command.”

“So you have said,” Missandei sighed, biting back what bitterness she could manage. She turned to him fully, but the Unsullied Captain would not turn to meet her eye. “You know the war will not last much longer,” she argued, “especially if _Daria_ _Daenerys_ should find any success in Dorne...” 

Grey Worm gave her nothing, except for the way his eyes were locked to the East, darkly troubled by whatever thoughts he insisted be left unsaid. “I would choose you,” she reminded him, “over any crown, if you asked it of me… But before long, _Torgo Nudho_ , you will _have_ to choose–”

“And what if our Queen fails in Dorne?” Grey Worm demanded in the Common Tongue. His eyes snapped to hers, if only for an instant before they turned back to the dark water. “What if Euron Greyjoy comes _now_ , with all his strength, to break our fleet to driftwood?... _These_ are things Unsullied Captain must know. How we will live today? How must I ensure that your eyes open tomorrow?”

Missandei glared, the frozen wind tossing her hair as it poured over the port rail, and found herself without reply. And yet, there was a smug satisfaction for her, when Grey Worm stood rigidly in place. Stationed at his post by Captain Yara’s command, Grey Worm could no more leave this spot than her argument. _I was angry when he first asked me to leave with him..._ she recalled, and her eyes softened some as the anger waned to fear, in his eyes. _An impossible decision, it had seemed then, to choose…_

“ _Ahoy_ , lovebirds.” Missandei turned to catch Yara Greyjoy’s eye. The woman was dressed in her usual, aged armor bearing the kraken of House Greyjoy, and over her shoulders hung a sturdy overcoat of fine black wool, bearing the same sigil over the heart, wreathed in crimson silk that trimmed the edges of the garment.

“Your Grace,” Missandei offered politely, and took half a step back from Grey Worm. 

The Iron Queen grinned. “Love the way it sounds, but Captain will do, ‘till we make port,” she added, closing the last of the gap. Yara grasped a length of shroud and hauled herself up to stand on the port rail. “We’re past the Fingers,” she informed, gesturing vaguely to starboard while her eyes swept across every inch of water that surrounded them. “The storm will give us some cover… as much as it’s probably giving my Uncle,” she added with a strange grin, “but it’s about to get worse.” 

“You seem… confident,” Missandei offered, finding the woman’s eager tone odd, for the news she bore. Yara closed her eyes and leaned farther over the rail, silent for a beat, until a grin split her face, and the first harsh lashing of rain soaked the deck, loud and frigid. The Ironborn laughed and dropped to the deck, and the sudden spray seemed to cease with the thump of her boots.

“I know this storm,” Yara mentioned, as if speaking of an old friend. “She’s a wild bitch, but the wind is ours,” she declared. “I’ll ride her all the way to the lee side of Gulltown, before night falls.”

“Should we not seek asylum, Captain?” Missandei asked. 

“The passenger ships'll have to make port now... We’ll have to as well, before long,” Yara replied seriously. 

"What of the Northmen aboard the passenger fleet?" Grey Worm asked.

"They'll join King Jon and the _khalasar_ on the Kingsroad, inland of the Fingers," Yara replied, and Missandei fought back a smile at the crude pronunciation. 

"Why do they make port, when we go on?" Grey Worm returned, his eyes still fixed on the sea.

"Arya Stark seems sure that Cersei's more interested in capturing _us_ than in waging a proper war. The faster we all are to Harroway’s Port, the better," Yara replied. "If The Iron Fleet intercepts us before then…” the Captain only shrugged, and Missandei nodded understanding. Euron’s Iron Fleet was an immense power, but their own fleet was nothing to shrug off: three dozen stoutly-made Ironborn ships, well-manned and battle-ready, sailing in a protective ring around the more harmless, six-score fleet of Northern passenger vessels, and leading them all, the grandest warship ever built: _The Dragon’s Mercy._

“We might win,” Yara offered with a dark smile. 

“I will stay,” Grey Worm said, eyes still fixed on the gaining wind, churning the ocean to a dizzying spatter that left little boundary left between ocean, air and sky. 

“You haven’t spent more than a year at sea,” Yara replied, crossing her arms, “Until my Uncle shows up or the storm passes, you’re a liability to my crew on deck. Captain’s orders,” Yara added with an easy smile, though her eyes were firm. 

The rain spattered roughly down again, as if to force them from the deck, and stopped. Grey Worm nodded in silent obedience, though he would not turn his eyes away from the sea. Sparing him an odd glance, Yara shrugged. “She’ll be on before the hour,” she warned, and turned to leave, “tie yourself to the mast or get below before then. If anyone goes overboard, there’ll be no saving them.” 

“... Theon was good soldier,” Grey Worm said suddenly, turning finally from the rail to catch Yara’s eye. Halfway to leaving, she stopped. “Before the Great War claims them both, he went on, “Theon Greyjoy made friendship with the Unsullied, White Bat... This one was my shield-brother, for all of my life… White Bat tells me Theon Greyjoy treated Unsullied with respect, and honor.” 

Yara stared for a beat, but seemed to falter for any reply, excepting a tight nod of thanks. “He was kind to me as well,” Missandei added softly, “for what little I knew of Prince Theon...”

“ _Prince_ Theon... he’d have loved that,” Yara scoffed with a rueful grin, and fell quiet for a pause. “Save your sorrows for a man who deserves it more,” she said finally, and Missandei furrowed her brow. “...Theon wasn’t always so noble,” Yara said easily, “He made some of the worst decisions a man could make, and kept on like that for most of his life. After everything he did, and everything that Ramsey did to him,” the Ironborn woman glanced tactlessly at Grey Worm, at the part of him that the Masters had taken, “...if you knew him better, you’d know why my brother was lucky to die as he did.” 

“He fought bravely. And died with honor,” Grey Worm replied, and Missandei was relieved that _if_ the Ironborn woman noticed the subtly combative edge to his tone, she seemed only impressed by it. “I wasn’t there,” Yara reminded him simply.

“Enslaved to Night King’s will,” Grey Worm began, “the dragon Viserion would have taken me, with rest of Unsullied, all archers… maybe all those in Winterfell,” Grey Worm replied. “My men say Theon Greyjoy was one to free the Queen’s child from the Night King’s chain. They say it was the Ironborn raised in Winterfell, who shares drinks with us; who asks us many questions of who we are, and where we come from, but never speaks of what the Masters have done to us…”

Grey Worm faltered a moment, cast his eyes down and up again. “Your brother takes only one arrow to free Viserion,” Grey Worm intoned, “but to take it, he knows he must die.”

The Ironborn woman glanced out to sea, her eyes swimming before a spatter of rain brought her face back around. The rain remained this time, steady and urgent, gaining by the moment. “Thank you,” Yara said, and waited for Grey Worm to nod somber reply. “Now if you don’t wanna join my brother in the Drowned God’s Hall, you’d best get below,” she warned with a grin, turned, and strode for the helm. 

When she had gone, Missandei glanced at Grey Worm, wondering if he would stick rigidly to his post for as long as he could, and found herself locked in his gaze. The steady, drumming rain ran down his skin, and the darkness of his eyes matched the ocean for depth. 

“I am a _soldier_ ,” Grey Worm said, helpless and angry at once. “From first breath, Unsullied are trained to fight, and to obey. _Only_ obey… No questions. No choices. Until Daenerys Stormborn asks Unsullied to fight, as free men… I could not _read_ until you teach me how! Taxes, trade, politics…” Grey Worm went on, “Unsullied know nothing of these things... How then, can this one ever call himself King, who must wake every day, to make such choices, and answer to no-one?” 

A joyful sorrow bloomed in her heart. “But, you are _more_ than Unsullied,” Missandei insisted, taking his hand. “You are their Captain, their guide… when the Unsullied were asked to choose, _they chose you_. Do you remember why?”

Grey Worm listened, his face a mask of stone as the rain ran down it.

“... You were the _bravest_ of them,” Missandei affirmed, “The one most fit to lead… You _are_ a _soldier_ ,” she reminded him proudly. “Bravest among the best, and good enough to know that the peace _we_ built will not last, if it is left on its own,” she went on, her voice dropping. She went on in the Low Valryian of his mother tongue, so that not a word of what she said could be lost to him. “The Masters who remain in the East _will_ attempt to reclaim their _property_ eventually…” 

Grey Worm bowed his head in grim understanding, but she kept on. 

“I need not remind you that _most of us_ who served the Masters did not do so as soldiers, _Torgo Nudho_ … Without someone like _you_ to command the Freedmen, what chance do you think they have at remaining free?” His silence gave his answer, and she bit back a triumphant smile, and constrained it only to her eyes. “And for the finer points of rule,” she hedged, drawing herself into him as the rain abated a moment, “I expect _any_ good King must rely on his Queen and council, for guidance and... education on the more intricate matters of state.”

He looked long into her eyes before glancing away, “...Queen Daenerys will not be there to guide me, in Meereen...” Grey Worm replied, not meeting her gaze, and Missandei blinked roughly. “... I meant _me_ ,” she said, shock bubbling into the clumsy phrase. 

Grey Worm laughed suddenly, ducking his head as the rain gained again, building to a sharp and pressing downpour. “Bad joke,” he admitted with a tight smile, and pulled her in, to brush his thumbs down her cheeks. 

“... my first joke, for my new Queen,” he said seriously, and a deafening boom rolled from the sky, followed by a flash of white. 

***

“Bosun!” Yara called from the forward rail of the forecastle, squinting through the salt and spray. Below, on deck, the broad-shouldered Ironborn turned and met her eye. “Captain at the helm!” He barked, and the crew of thirty-five turned to face her, as well as the Unsullied who remained on deck. “Batten all!” Yara shouted. “There’s a spring wind after us! Clear the deck and stow the strays!”

“Aye aye, sir!” The bosun returned, and hurried the crew to their tasks. Harrag was his name; the bosun doubled as her First Mate, as he was the most aged and experienced of the two dozen Ironborn aboard; Harrag was a man she knew well enough to Captain in her stead, if she should join Theon in the Drowned God’s Hall. Before the next swell had rolled beneath– stern to bow, with the wind– every man and woman save the crew aboard _The Dragon’s Mercy_ had been swept below deck by Harrag’s order, and all loose cargo was strapped and secured. The bosun returned to her attention, just below the forecastle. 

“Cargo’s squared and away, sir!” Harrag called. “All cannons double-chained to stations!” 

Another wave rolled beneath, stern to bow, larger than the last, but stunted compared to what would come. The wind pressed against her back, sharp and urgent. “Strike the topsail!” Yara shouted to the bosun, “Rig the storm jib and hoist the trysails! Reef all else! With a will!” 

“Aye aye, Sir!” Harrag called back, hustling his fellows to their stations with all the haste she demanded. In short order, the topsail was down, the others pulled tight and sharp with men below, standing ready to lower. “Hold fast and standby! Keep a level keel, wind and waves to stern! Run for the lee-side of Gulltown!” 

“Aye aye, sir!” The crew called back; heard and understood. _Good…_ Yara swept the deck with her eyes, looking for any task left undone, any knot left untied or improper, and found none. She smiled. 

“She’ll be on her beam ends before it’s done, boys!” Yara crowed. The crew cheered to the challenge as another gaining wave hoisted their ship high. “And tonight!” Yara shouted eagerly, “If you find yourself dining with the Drowned…” the crew cheered again, waiting for her. 

She hollered gladly over the catch in her throat, “... tell my little brother he died a good man.” 

The Ironborn roared, and Harrag shared a silent, knowing glance with her from across the deck. Her bosun had served with Theon, from Dragonstone to Blackwater Bay, and north again to White Harbor… and no longer. The bosun nodded, as serious in his reply as Yara had meant the request, and promptly broke his gaze to bark commands to the crew on deck. 

What time there had been before the storm was past; the winds lashed from behind, driving the rain, pressing their ship forward with the waves, and sending spray five paces high each time their bow smashed the rear end of a surge. _The Dragon’s Mercy_ kept on for an hour, running with endless gale south-and-west, barreling for the coastline from which Yara had spent the first half of the day bearing nearly due East, and away from. She had the wheel, as well as the highest position on deck with the crow's nest empty, and with the steering fixed in place, she kept her eyes loose, sweeping to all sides that faced the open sea. 

Finally, she saw it; a wall of water ten paces high, lined with a white spatter of foam, sprinting for the port rail. “Storm surge, to port!” Yara shouted over the gale, and yanked the length of rope that kept the wheel fixed. The knot came away easily with one sharp tug, and the wheel fought her as she hauled one side down, down, and down again. 

“Brace!” Yara shouted as if it were her last. 

The wave struck the port bow with a booming thud; the force nearly ripped her hands from the wheel, and the ship ploughed roughly and instantly sidewards. Instantly, and then incrementally, the ship pitched to shoreward side as the wave pushed them along. Hands like iron on the wheel, Yara grunted and slumped with the rest as the wave washed over the deck, sending grown men sprawling, shouting and clutching for anything to keep them aboard. The starboard rail dropped down, down, and further, until it dipped beneath the churning black water below. _Come on…_ Yara thought, clutching the wheel, her eyes locked on the dark water, creeping up the deck. 

The ocean crawled three paces more, and receded at once as the wave outran them. The ship righted as quickly as her Captain stood. There was a knot in her stomach, a sense of _wrongness_ that pervaded, despite that their angle had not suffered much. By her next breath, Harrag had it halfway to correction. The sails snapped to, trim and sharp to the wind. A tingle in her toes fed the knot in her gut. “Hard to port!” Yara shouted, hauling the wheel again. “Slack the foresails! With a will!” 

“Aye, Captain?” The bosun shouted. “We’ll be at a beam reach to the wind!” 

“ _Aye!_ Do it!” Yara shouted, her face twisting as she held the wheel to port with white, clutching hands. Harrag complied, letting the wind fly free past the bow while the mizzen caught its power from the stern, and the ship heaved, swung hard to face the open sea. The sails snapped furiously, parallel to the wind, and the sickening twang of failing lines sounded once, twice, and a third before the wind vanished, and all snapping of sheets quieted. After hours of shrieking gale, the air stilled, grim and silent at once. _Shit…_

“Rogue wave, to port!” Yara screamed. Their angle was good, and the wave would hit where it was meant to, but the knot in her stomach only tightened. “Reef the foresails!” She screamed, and with no wind at all to push the sheets, it was done in moments. “Slack the mizzen, and hold fast!"

The empty sound, where the wind belonged, rang louder than the spattering rain on the deck. 

A rumbling came, like a heartbeat that sprinted immediately out of control, and there was a short moment beyond the galing rain where Yara saw it; the unearthly wave, racing for the bow; a surge to dwarf every other she had seen, thirty-paces high. 

A wave so monstrous, it had swallowed all wind ahead of it.

“Brace yourselves!” Yara shouted, and the wave hit the bow with a thunderous crack; a wall of water surged from the bow, eliminating five men from the deck in a blink, while ten more were washed from bow to stern. The foremast bent back, ropes and minor rigging snapping like twine. The wheel ripped itself from her hand, and only the leather leads, binding her to station kept her from spilling overstern. The wheel spun freely, each spoke slapping against the water as the ocean took her rudder. 

After the blast, the water fell away below as ship climbed a wall of water, turning and dropping the starboard rail low as it did. Green sailors clinging to the ratlines lost their grips, and joined the Drowned God with short screams. Just before the ocean’s fury could roll _The Dragon’s Mercy_ to the depths, the foresails caught the wind, spilling overtop the wave; slack sails snapped to, at once wrenching the bow back in line, and they crested the peak. 

Ahead, the water dropped like a cliff face, straight down the back of the beast, but at the height of the crest there was a pause, hardly a heartbeat, but enough for Yara to glimpse the shadow of the coast through the rain, hardly more than a league to starboard.

The foresail would fail by the next wave, if not before; the mast was cracked in the middle, leaning just to stern, and bending further as the bow dropped down to plunge down the back end of the wave. What force lay beneath the waves pulled them down, faster every moment to the bottom of the watery cliffside. Where the wave base broke, it pulled their ship roughly to one side. 

Her hands were iron on the wheel when the keel leveled, but the wheel itself was slack. She turned it to port, then starboard, but there was no pressure besides the lazy pull of whatever rudders remained beneath them. Her stomach dropped before the bosun called out their fate. 

“We’re in irons, Captain!” Harrag shouted, his voice dutifully calm, despite that his eye echoed her own thoughts. 

_Then we’re fucked…_

The wind was dead ahead of them, blowing straight into the bow, rendering all sails as useless as rudders. She glanced to starboard, which would take the full brunt of the next wave, whenever it came. _And when it does…_ Her eyes closed, and she bowed her head to the rain knowing that, in ten seconds or twenty, there would be nothing left of them but driftwood. 

_“You were always the lucky one,”_ Theon used to tell her; he used to scream it when they were young, and sneered it when he had grown… The self-pity in his eyes had always disgusted her when he said so, almost as much as knowing that he was right. _“You were always the lucky one…”_ Yara’s eyes snapped open, and she drew herself up and surveyed the deck. Crewmen were cutting away the loose sheets with a frenzy, but the bosun moved quickly through them to reach her. The foresail was halfway to ruin, loose rope and rigging were strewn everywhere, along the deck, over rails and fixtures. There were fifteen crew missing, at least, and half the others wounded.

“Sir…” Harrag said, stepping grimly to her side. _Theon,_ Yara prayed for the first time in earnest, and cast her eyes to the storm above, _if you’re listening..._

“Let go the port anchor,” Yara ordered. 

“We’re too far from the coast, Captain,” the bosun replied. “We won’t catch an edge by a half a league, at this depth…” 

She turned, and whatever look she wore silenced him. “Aye,” Harrag grinned, nodded, “ _Aye_ , Sir. Nothing to lose, and no time either!” Harrag turned to bark over the remaining crew’s waiting faces, the rain pummeling his back. “Let go the port anchor! With a will!” 

Yara kept her eyes on the chain as it rattled over and over the edge, and finally pulled taught as its length ran out. The ship drifted along as it had, useless in irons, at the mercy of the storm. Her eyes fell away from the anchor chain, falling to her feet, wondering when the trembling would come.

A wan shriek, punctuated by sharp, timely snaps rang out as the chain raked forward along the rail. The ship rounded hard, blown by the wind as the anchor caught some unlikely feature at the bottom of the ocean and hauled their bow around. Grunting, Yara clung on with the others until the ship twisted itself to a point, and settled. The snapping of rails slowed, and the ship groaned, torn between the wind, the waves, and the bowline that kept it pinned to one spot, rotating slowly in position. 

“Reef all sail! Ready to run!” Yara called out, casting a glance at the bosun. Harrag spared her an awed look, and a crazed laugh before dashing to the anchor’s holdfast, snatching a prybar up as he passed. 

The sails stirred, and the wheel pulled gently on her hand. “Now!” Yara screamed, and Harrag wrenched the holdfast free; the anchor fell away, to join in perpetuity whatever unlikely feature had caught its edge. The ship shuddered again as the chain let go; foremast snapped and fell, beams plunging to the water before it ripped the fixture into the sea. Yara hauled the wheel around, and felt the wind fall in behind them, filling their sails and sending them straight for the sheltered bay south of Gulltown. 

The bosun cried out in victory, and the crew echoed it while Yara narrowed her eye at the coastline, materializing slowly beyond the rain. It was a short run along the southern edge of the peninsula, and the coast that ran along was long past familiar. 

And there were dark patches along the coast, new to her eye; countless black, unfamiliar stains dotting along, staunch and unavoidably large against the pale, rocky coast. _The Iron Fleet…_


	52. Kings and Queens (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jon leads the Dothraki south to Harroway's Town. Arya makes a decision, and Gendry makes a request to his King._

The Neck was undoubtedly fairer to see from the dragon’s back than the horse’s, and the Kingsroad was the only passing through the swamps for an army, let alone a Dothraki  _ khalasar  _ thirty-thousand strong. The spring floods demanded a slower, more methodical march; south, and downhill of Moat Cailin, smoothed cobble turned to damp earth, and quickly to mud, thicker by the hour, and traversable only over the long rectangles of half-buried stone, set end to end; remnants of a more ancient road, lain long ago by the Children of the Forest. In all seasons, spring most of all, the Kingsroad through the crannog was a difficult and dangerous trek, and demanded abandonment of all the haste which had brought Jon and the Dothraki army here, from Winterfell. 

Jon swatted another gnat, scowling, and wondering how the Reeds and the other crannogmen ever managed to thrive in such a place. Every breath was wet and heavy, the bugs never  _ ceased _ , and the warm, dank air of spring was ripe with the scent of mud and fresh decay. 

Jon smiled, “Father used to say traveling the Neck felt like swimming on land,” he recalled as his dark destrier’s hooves sucked at the sodden earth. 

“But instead of sharks," Arya remembered fondly, "you worry about lizards as big as lions.”

“Aye,” Jon laughed. His sister rode beside him, dressed in plain, sturdy leathers, and mounted on a warhorse that matched his own for size and quality, though younger and faster, and hers bore a coat of shining brown in lieu of black. Jon patted his proud stallion's neck, a familiar beast whom Arya had named Prince, furious to learn Jon had never given him a name other than ' _ my horse _ ,' though the stallion had been with him since Dragonstone. On the island, Daenerys' bloodrider had offered the mount for his use on the island, and Prince had been his ever since.  _ Her first gift to me, _ he realized, and loved his Prince a little better for it.

“Have you named him yet?” Jon asked, nodding to the yearling that Daenerys offered for his sister to keep. Arya grinned and ruffled the stallion’s dark mane. “Ned,” she replied happily. Jon smiled and commended her choice. 

“I named my dagger too,” she added, freeing the Valyrian blade from its sheath and spinning it over her hand. “ _ Second Sister _ ,” she told him. 

“Like _ Dark Sister _ ,” Jon observed, naming the blade that Visenya Targaryen– Arya’s favorite of the Targaryen Queens of old– had wielded during the Conquest. 

“Caught that, did you?” Arya quipped, sliding the blade back into its sheath. 

_ Second Sister, _ he recalled again, and though he was pleased for the homage it bore to Daenerys' ancestors– as well as his own, he knew now– it still made him sad to remember Sansa. He shook his head, sparing himself the pity of mourning her, after she had betrayed them so grievously, and displacing the foul memory of how he had buried her, beneath the singed rubble that had once been Castle Cerwyn. 

“You always had a knack for naming them,” Jon said instead. 

The  _ khalsar _ followed behind them, with only Ser Davos, the Dothraki Dragonlords, the High Priestess Idri, and a handful of their chosen bloodriders riding ahead, just out of earshot except for the occasional crow of Ser Davos’ laugh. Per usual, Arya guessed his thoughts with only a glance, “He's gonna marry the High Priestess,” she remarked, and Jon gaped at her. 

“Ser Davos? But he’s already married,” Jon argued, and Arya shook her head. “His wife’s dead,” she said casually, and ducked her eyes under his look, “Cersei’s soldiers found her,” she added sadly, “I heard it was quick… If it makes you feel better, Cersei was furious when she found out how quick it was.” 

“It doesn't,” Jon sighed, glancing at the old man, wondering when the last his loyal advisor had even  _ seen _ his wife.  _ Years, at least, _ Jon thought. Ahead, Ser Davos wore a wide grin, and stared delightedly at the old Dothraki Priestess, who spoke loud enough to almost hear from ten paces off, gesticulating wildly as she did, both her hands free of the reigns. “Does he know?” Jon asked grimly, and Arya chuckled, drawing his eye. “I told him this morning… I've heard Lady Seaworth wasn't the most charming company to keep. Not from him though, of course.”

Jon gaped at her until he laughed, delighted, and looked again to Ser Davos ahead, who himself shared another boisterous laugh with the Dothraki Priestess, and offered an undoubtedly brash, witty reply to her. 

They watched the old man flirt in bemused quiet for a while, until his thoughts drifted, as they did, on a march. A splash nearby, naught but ripples in the dark water by the time he glanced, prompted him to voice his thought aloud, “You know that they’re real, don't you?" Jon asked, “the lizard-lions? The way father described them, they always sounded like stories to me, 'till I saw them myself.”

“Stories like dragons, and Whitewalkers?” Arya asked with a grin, and Jon chuckled. “I know they’re real,” she affirmed, “I can hear them out there,” she nodded towards the tall, dark grasses that poked along the edges of the bogs. Often as not, the waters themselves were obscured by peat mosses and lichens, which crawled over the surface to damn any who mistook them for solid ground. 

He almost laughed again in jest, until he remembered that Arya had spent years living in Braavos as a blind girl, and could  _ hear  _ things, plainly… sounds and whispers that others could not hope to half-hear, and that ever since her time with the Faceless Men, Arya had not spoken a lie aloud, even in jest, and never would... 

“What do they sound like, to you?” Jon asked instead. 

“Big,” Arya replied with a grin. “Thick skin, like armor… Not tall, though. I can hear their bellies scraping the ground when they walk. Can’t believe you can’t hear them, hissing to each other like that. There must be hundreds...” 

Jon frowned, hopeful to not discover exactly how many lizard-lions were lurking in endless swaths of peat moss and dark water. He raised his eyes to check the falling sun for time. “Is the  _ Dragon King _ scared of a few lizard-lions?” Arya taunted, and Jon nodded grimly. 

“More than a few… Father’s army lost five-hundred men in one night,” he reminded her, “traveling the Neck on foot, after dark… Said it was the worst mistake he’d ever made.” 

At that, he gave a rueful sniff, wondering for the first time, if his father had accounted for  _ lying _ the whole of his life, when he said that Jon Snow was his bastard-born son.  _ Five hundred dead means a lot more than a name, _ he supposed,  _ even a royal one... _

“With creatures like that about,” Jon gruffed, “it’s no wonder the wolves wouldn’t follow us south of Moat Cailin…" 

“The North is their home,” Arya replied, unruffled. “They won’t leave until they’re ready to... Maybe ever.”

“Does that not bother you?” Jon demanded, and she looked at him to go on. “I'd have a hard time picturing myself ruling in King’s Landing without Ghost… or you,” he added glumly. “I don’t suppose you’ve decided yet, whether you’ll come with me?”

Arya narrowed her eyes. “You can’t hear them anymore,” she observed after a pause, meaning the wolves. Jon sighed and shook his head, “Not since I last saw Daenerys, at the Tower,” he admitted with a nervous shrug. “I’ve been trying, but… Maybe my hearing isn’t as good as yours.” 

“It’s not like that,” she replied, and he furrowed his brow. “I don’t...  _ hear  _ them, not  _ here _ ,” she explained, pointing to her ear. “I hear them here,” she said, pointing instead to the direct center of her forehead.

“Well,” Jon sighed in frustration, “I can’t hear them  _ there  _ either.”

“You can’t make it happen,” Arya replied sagely. “Just trust that it  _ will  _ happen, when it needs to.” 

_Easy for you to say,_ he thought jealousy. Before the Long Night, in the Godswood of Winterfell, the Three-Eyed Raven had lain some spellwork on Arya. Whatever Bran had done to her then, Arya could only explain to say she was one with the wolves, now. He envied her; it had felt that way for him as well, until recently. In Winterfell, with Rhaegal and Ghost both, Jon had been able to slide in and out of their eyes without any effort. It had taken him a full day to realize that after the Queen had left Winterfell, he lost control of the warging. Rhaegal was alive, Jon knew, and so was Ghost… he could feel their hearts beating alongside his own, but he had not been able to conjure anything useful from them since last he laid eyes on Daenerys, not even as he slept. 

Closing his eyes, Jon tried to reach out to Rhaegal, wherever he was. There was a cool, wet wind under his wings, sliding over his skin. Power and fury in the air beneath, _pride_... and _purpose_ , a fire raging in his chest... but it was foggy, a half-forgotten dream with no picture, just vague memory, and an uncomfortable darkness behind his waking eyes. _Ghost,_ Jon called out instead, and in the same hazy manner, Jon remembered the cool, sharp stone of mountain earth beneath his paws, the scent of prey and salt on the wind, the pack ahead of him. His alpha behind, driving them on.

Jon’s eyes opened with an impatient sigh. “ _ Bran _ can control them,” Jon gruffed. “Control  _ it _ ,” he corrected himself. 

“No, he can’t,” Arya replied tersely, “and whatever’s sitting in the Godswood of Winterfell right now isn’t Bran... Bran died beyond the Wall.” 

Furrowing his brow, Jon allowed himself to be silent on the matter. If she had not conceded that Bran might be alive,  _ somewhere  _ in there by now, she never would.  _ She can think what she wants, _ he thought, biting his tongue. “Is there any news from Daenerys?” Jon asked after the pause. 

“No news is good news,” Arya replied with easy confidence, and Jon scowled.  _ Seems to me like  _ good news _ is good news, _ he thought, and Arya looked at him as if she had heard every word. “You’ll know if anything happens to her,” she told him. 

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because the dragons would know,” she replied, and he felt the truth of her words resonate. She grinned. “The Faceless Man told me that magic is just the same as fire. The more you have around you, the easier it is to make your own.” 

“Oh, I see... So you’re  _ one with the wolves _ , but I’m powerless without my magic wife?” Jon wondered, his voice dripping in sarcasm, but he laughed heartily when she only shrugged, grinning, “and what makes you so special, then? Why can you hear them without her nearby, if I can't?”

Arya seemed unwilling to reply; her mirth waned, and she only looked back at him with wide, dark eyes. “... I don’t know,” she said at last, glancing away and around intently, as if expecting to see something in the marshland– or someone– waiting to catch her eye. “I was only joking,” Jon offered. 

“I know,” she said distantly, still scanning the bog. “There’s a bad storm coming on the Narrow Sea,” she said suddenly, looking back to him, “Yara will send the Northmen inland while the warships press on to Gulltown. The Northmen will take the river past Strongsong, and meet us at the Kingsroad.” 

“Did the wolves tell you that too?” Jon wondered, and Arya slipped a scroll from her sleeve, sealed with the Kraken of House Greyjoy and handed it over to him, looking smug. 

“You should stop soon,” Arya remarked, “ground’s a little higher here... Not so many lizards. The wolves  _ did _ tell me that the marsh gets more dangerous, ahead.” 

He considered her words, “You’re not stopping with us?” Jon asked, and she looked into his eyes before shaking her head. 

“Sandor Clegane and Gendry are coming with me,” she said, as if it were settled, and Jon stared at her, wondering which argument to voice first. “You know you won’t keep me here,  _ Your Grace, _ ” she said with a grin, and turned her eyes forward, “I’ve got to keep going.” 

“Tell me why, then,” Jon demanded, and she shrugged. “I can’t tell you because I don’t know myself,” she admitted. “Just know that I have to, with them."

Arya would say no more on it, and only shrugged at his less-than-casual mentions of quicksand, lizard-lions, crannog bandits, and other foul stories father used to tell of what lurked in the marshes, stories probably no less real than the dragons or the Whitewalkers. She said nothing at all to his distrust of the Hound, and seemed to ignore him entirely, scanning the swamp with wide, dark eyes. Eventually he gave in to stubborn silence. The sun sank low, and the King called the  _ khalasar  _ to halt, and gave the order to make camp. Arya vanished in her usual way, and Jon wondered if he would see her again before she left, and kept himself busy as King and  _ Khal  _ both, trying not to wonder if he would ever see her again.

When camp had been made, the three Dothraki Dragonlords to survive the Great War came to meet him in his tent, along with High Priestess Idri and Ser Davos, and though Jon knew well his obligation to check in with them, he felt itchy in his skin, and eager to be done with it. 

Jon almost thanked the Dothraki for coming, but remembering himself, offered them each instead a small purse of gold, half to keep for themselves, and half to distribute to their most upstanding soldiers: those who needed the  _ least  _ convincing on the order of,  _ “No raping, no pillaging, and no burning or conquering cities without command.” _

Yathi and Tvarro, the only two Dothraki Jon knew of to be married  _ only  _ to each other, took his gift with grateful nods, while the one-armed Khava took hers with a blink that Jon knew would be hiding a roll of her eyes. 

“The Riders grow restless,” Khava said at once, “they will not follow your command forever. _You_ are not the _Khaleesi_ we choose. When will she return?” 

“Tell your restless Riders that it’s the Queen’s command I’m following,” Jon replied sternly, “and to expect the same sort of punishment from me, disobeying her orders, as they would from her. Daenerys will meet us as planned in Harroway’s Town, not a week behind us.” 

Tvarro glanced to Yathi before he spoke, his amber voice rich, though well-practiced in the Common Tongue, “And if  _ Khaleesi  _ does not come in time?”

“If there’s no word from her of delay,” Jon replied grimly, “then we march for Dorne to rescue her.” He fought back a grimace, wondering how many soldiers they would lose on that march, if not all of them. The Dornish Marches would be a trek to make the half-sunken road through the crannog seem as a safe, and spritely jaunt, by contrast. 

“ _ Khaleesi _ has not need saving from men like you before,” Khava said, and the King decided to ignore it, when Yathi spoke up just after. “ _ Khal anni… _ To send  _ khalsar  _ to Dorne will mean bloodshed, if they think  _ Khaleesi _ in danger.” 

The High Priestess Idri nodded, resolute, “A  _ Khal  _ does not send his  _ khalasar  _ to make peace and friendship, not with the ones who steal his bride.”

“I am not a  _ Khal _ ,” Jon said simply, looking to each in turn, “I am a King. And if our Queen should fail to meet us, without any word from her of delay, I will have to assume she is being held against her will.” 

Khava scoffed, “We will hear tales of desert turned to sea of glass, before we hear the Khaleesi is held in Dorne,  _ against her will _ ...” 

_ Gods be good… Does she think I  _ want _ a war with Dorne? _ Jon thought, biting the words back. The woman’s attitude clawed at his patience, but ever since Arya had told him the whole of her story– a tale so grim that Jon tried not to  _ think  _ of it, even as he did– he strived for patience with her. Despite Khava’s unwaveringly volatile temper, he decided he must show her that some Kings could be better than the first  _ Khal  _ the woman had known, and all the others after… and to think of what  _ Khal  _ Jogo had done to Khava, her sisters, her daughters… 

Jon shook his head, glanced to Ser Davos, who tore his eyes from the High Priestess' bosom– bearing a freshly-picked water-lily bloom, Jon noticed– to offer him a sympathetic look.  _ “Gently, Your Grace _ , _ ” _ the old man seemed to say with a glance between the King and Khava. 

“You’re probably right,” Jon allowed at last, “and I’m sure Queen Daenerys would be grateful for your faith in her.” 

As it often did, his failure to rise to her arguments produced only a tight nod, and he fought back a triumphant look, “I must ask all of you,” he said tersely, sweeping his eyes over the Dothraki, “to not lead the Queen’s bloodriders to believe anything is amiss with her. Not until we have reason to think so.” 

“This is wise,” Idri commended– more for the others than himself, Jon thought– and Davos agreed wholeheartedly. Yathi nodded after a pause, though nervously, and Tvarro followed suit after his bride; he was a handsome man, quiet, with sharp eyes that only softened to look on Yathi, and it was said by the Riders that if Tvarro had ever disagreed with his bride, it had been done in a place the eye does not see. 

With little else to report, the King dismissed his advisers to rest and sup with the rest of the army. By then, the last of the day’s light had abated. On leaving, Ser Davos, following the High Priestess, paused at the flap door. The old man turned, grined, and waggled his brow before plunging through the door after her. A short laugh bled into a lonesome sigh, and  _ Jon Targaryen, the First of His Name _ sat down, began his first letter, then the next, and on until the night’s noon rose, when he dropped the quill into the inkpot, stretched his hand and hurried outside, to walk under the stars until sleep took him. 

He pushed through the tent flap to find his path blocked by Arya, waiting just outside with Gendry and the Hound, who held their horses, packed well with traveling wear. Jon hurried to his sister and pulled her in, held her tight. “I thought you’d gone already,” he admitted, and pulled away, holding on to her shoulders. 

“Meera Reed’s going to join the march tomorrow, with three hundred crannogmen,” Arya told him, and Jon blinked back in surprise, and asked how she knew. “The lizards aren’t the only whispers I've heard, out there,” she replied with a grin. 

“Well... good," he allowed, half-heartedly. "We could use the crannogmen’s aid, getting everyone through the swamp…”

Arya nodded. “Keep the fires going on, through the night,” she advised in a knowing way, “The lizards' eyes glow red in the firelight. Only way to see them coming.”

The way she spoke, Jon knew she meant to be quick about the goodbye. “Red eyes, glowing in the dark, got it,” he said, glum through his jest, and she only looked at him. “You’re  _ sure  _ you want to leave tonight? With… them?” Jon asked, glancing over Gendry, and casting a wary eye at the Hound. 

“Oh, I’m alright now,” the Hound gruffed dismissively, his arms crossed, and Jon dropped his hands from Arya’s shoulders to fix him under a hard look.  _ He shouldn't have said anything,  _ he decided. 

“And I’m supposed to take  _ your  _ word on that?” Jon demanded, incredulous. “You’ve served some of the worst despots Westeros has ever seen. You murdered a child in cold blood, ‘cause Joffrey told you to, probably more than one!”

“Don’t try to tell me you’re some perfect sort,” the Hound gruffed, “I made my mistakes, and paid for them, same as you. I fought the ice monsters in the Great War, same as you.”

“You don’t have to take his word for anything,” Arya quipped, interrupting Jon before he could reply, “Take mine. I can handle him, if I have to, but... He’s… alright, now,” she admitted, casting a sorry glance at the burned man. 

“Fuck off, girl, you don’t have to say it like that,” Sandor grumbled. 

“ _ You mind your tongue, _ ” Jon growled, taking a step forward. Arya pressed a hand against his chest, and he let himself be stopped, though he stared coldly over her shoulder and let the silence hang. 

“Your Grace,” Gendry chimed in, awkwardly pleasant over the tense silence, “could I have a word… when you’re done?” 

Jon stared at the Hound another beat, with murder in his eyes until the burned man lowered his own. Jon nodded tightly to Gendry, shouldering past the Hound as they wandered off a short distance, just within the light of the fires, and well away from the tall furrows of grass which served as the only markers to the hidden bogwaters. 

“Do you trust him?” Jon asked the blacksmith, who shrugged. “Not really,” Gendry replies, “Don't like him much either, but I trust her. I dunno though, he does seem… different, than he was.”

"We're all different,” Jon sighed, resigned that he had no more control over what Arya did than anyone ever had. “What did you want to talk about?” 

“Well…” Gendry hedged, and chuckled wryly, “I’m not sure if I’d offend  _ her  _ by asking, or  _ you  _ by not asking,” he began, casting his eyes up in thought, “but... going by authority, you’re the King, and she’s only Warden of the North, so…” Gendry looked at him. 

Jon shook his head, “So…” 

“So, I was  _ ahm _ ,” the blacksmith cleared his throat, “I was wondering if I could ask for your blessing, you know… to ask your sister to marry me, even though I’m a bastard an’ all, I… I figured you of all people would… understand?” 

Jon pursed his lips, fighting back a grin. “You think the King of the Seven Kingdoms would allow his own sister to marry half-blood scum, like you?” He asked with utmost seriousness. 

Gendry’s eyes split wide open for a beat, until they both broke into a hearty laugh together. Jon slapped his shoulder. “Never thought I’d meet a man who could keep up with her,” he remarked, and Gendry smiled with his eyes downcast. 

“I can’t really… she’s quicker than I am, but I think I slow her down, in a way she likes... She’s the most interesting person I’ve ever met,” Gendry added, “Your royal self and your wife included, meaning no offense.” 

Jon laughed, “I would hope so…” His voice was more serious when he went on, “I wouldn’t expect her to be surprised, when you ask... And I wouldn’t expect a clear answer from her, straight away.” 

“I wouldn’t ask her, if I expected a clear answer, straight away,” Gendry laughed, and Jon joined him. “You know...” the blacksmith added thoughtfully, after a pause, “you laugh a lot more than you used to.” 

“Do I?” Jon wondered aloud, and found himself smiling, remembering the permanent scowl Sam used to tease him for wearing, at the Wall, “Aye, I guess I do.” 

“Was it marriage?” Gendry wondered, and Jon nodded, though adding, “Not by itself, though... You saw them, beyond the Wall, and at Winterfell.” 

There was no need to specify who he meant by  _ them _ . Gendry’s face took a haunted look, and Jon nodded grimly, “…Ten years I spent, knowing the Whitewalkers and the Army of the Dead would take us all, if they had half a chance. Ten years, preparing for them... _ in vain _ , I thought, more often than not. And just when it all seemed more hopeless than ever, Daenerys…” Even saying her name enlivened him past words, and he found himself unable to finish the thought, save a fond smile. “And compared to all  _ that _ ,” Jon went on, “Compared to the Great War, the Army of the Dead, the Night King…  _ This  _ war, with Cersei...” Gendry looked at him, eager to hear more, and Jon shrugged. 

“It’s child’s play,” Jon finished simply. 

“Yeah,” Gendry laughed, “Yeah, I suppose it would be, after all that,” he added, casting a glance over his shoulder to where his party waited to leave. Arya had mounted, and the look on her face summoned the blacksmith back to her side. “Well, good luck with it, all the same,” Gendry offered, reaching a hand forward. Jon took it and pulled him in, slapped his back a few times, and held him there with arms like iron. 

“Take care of her,” Jon ordered, as quietly as he could manage.

“I will,” Gendry promised, and pulled away as Jon released. The blacksmith turned to leave. “Gendry,” Jon called, and the man turned to see the King shaking his head, laughing dryly at himself. “I nearly forgot,” he pulled a small leather tube from beneath his cloak, unbound it, and pulled the scroll free. “You’re not a bastard anymore,” he passed the scroll over for Gendry to read. “That names you Gendry Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End and Warden of the Stormlands.” 

The blacksmith’s eyes popped wide, “I… thought you’d have done it by now,” he breathed, “if you was gonna do it, I mean…” 

“I’ve had a lot on my mind,” Jon replied, half sorry and half humored. The blacksmith nodded, eyes on the scroll, and glanced up. 

“Meaning no offense… but, I don’t want this, if she won’t come with me,” he said, hesitance plain on him. 

“I think that’s wise,” Jon commended with a smile, “I haven’t sent word to anyone else, and I won’t, until you say so. That scroll gives you just as much authority to appoint a steward in your stead, but… The people of the Stormlands won’t want to serve a stranger, any more than anyone else does. You’d have to spend some time there, I think… or burn the bloody thing, if you want,” Jon suggested, “You're always welcome to join our council, bastard or no. And if Arya agrees to marry the likes of you, you’ll take her name for your own,” Jon paused, realizing what that meant for himself, as well as Gendry. “In that case… it’ll be good to have a brother I can trust, again,” he added, somber and glad at once. 

Gendry smiled in surprise at that, nodded thoughtfully, rolled the scroll up and slipped it carefully into its protective leather sheath. “Take care of her,” Jon told him again, “I’d come with you if I could,” he added.

“I don’t wanna surprise you or nothing, but… she don't need much taking care of,” Gendry replied, grinning as he moved off. 

From ten paces, Arya turned to smile smugly at him, and Jon knew she had heard every word. He raised his hand up high, and she returned the gesture as Gendry made his way back to her side and mounted. The party of three rode off into the darkness of the marsh, and the King retired.


	53. Dark Wings, Dark Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Arya, Gendry and the Hound make their way south through the dangerous marshes of the Neck. Jon wrestles between his instinct and his obligations, as King._

The lanterns hung on the horses' packs was the only light, excepting the red eyes which caught the lantern light. Thousands of them lurked in the water, drifting slowly closer, more often than not. Beside him, Arya rode with her eyes everywhere at once, probing every unseen shadow and tilting her head in the wolfish way she had. Occasionally, she urged the horses on faster, from a steady walk to a half-trot, and slowed again after some time.

"Will you quit your wild-eyed gazing around, like that?" The Hound demanded before the first hour had passed. "You're makin' me nervous."

"Good," Arya replied without looking at him, "Cause we're being hunted."

As if to prove her point, the horses nickered, and the gaping jaws of a lizard-lion shot forward from the brush. The Hound's black destrier, a massive beast he called Stranger, roared and lashed back with a sharp kick as he dashed forward. The scaly hide struck by hoof offered a dull, loud thud. _Wonderful,_ Gendry thought, swallowing his nervousness, _they're exactly as big as I heard, and twice as fast._

"Stubborn girl," the Hound scoffed when his horse had settled, and the lizard-lion gave up the chase after another swift kick from Stranger. "You wanna explain to me why you'd rather be hunted by lizards, instead stopping to rest for one bloody night?"

Arya reminded him, quietly, that he could do as he liked; the Hound scoffed, and fell to sullen silence. They rode in silence for a while, and in between scouting for lizards, and wondering if they were _as_ large or _larger_ than lions, which the blacksmith had never seen before either, Gendry itched to ask the most intimidating of requests, to the most intimidating of women, and bit his tongue a dozen times or more.

 _Her hand in marriage ain't something to ask for in a bloody swamp in the middle of the night,_ he decided more than once, and kept finding new reasons as they went, _two paces at best from a pair of gapin' jaws... with the bloody Hound within earshot to mock me for asking at all..._

"You're quiet," Gendry said instead, when the Hound had drifted back a ways to ride in his usual glum silence. "Quieter than I remember you being."

"I am," she agreed. "Is that alright?" Arya turned from the black void, where the tangled marshes and all its monsters hid. Her dark eyes seemed to glow in the lantern light. "The way I am now, I mean?"

Gendry laughed, "If anything I like you better, now," he said honestly, and went on in jest, flexing his shoulders, "Nice and quiet, like a good little Lady ought to be."

She grimaced at him, before the dry smile poked through. Her eyes widened, and glanced at something behind him, "Get down."

Gendry obeyed without thinking, and a short scream announced the raven that would've flown straight through his head, given the chance.

 _It's huge..._ he thought, staring as the bird landed with a flurry of wings and raucous screams on the horn of Arya's saddle. Her horse, Ned, plodded along unbothered, and hardly seemed to notice it. The bird settled, and Gendry realized what it was, then saw the proof in the white spot on its forehead; he had seen the Three-Eyed Raven before, in the Godswood before the Long Night, but now the bird looked ragged, half-dead, with feathers frayed, cawing raucously where once it had observed with keen, intelligent silence.

Arya seemed unsurprised, and took a scroll from the Raven's mouth into her hand, broke the seal, and read intently. The bird preened itself, or so Gendry thought until it ripped a pinfeather from its wing with a pained cry, and set the feather carefully, slowly onto Arya's lap. Still fixated on the letter, Arya did not glance up to watch it happen, nor to watch the Raven fly off into the night, warbling, until it vanished to the shadowed swamp behind them.

 _What in Seven Hells was that all about?_ Gendry wondered, looking back to her. The feather across her legs was large enough to spread over both, and still had length to hang over each side; and there was blood on the quill, nearly a drop that had pooled at the base of the pinfeather. He shook his head, wondering if the magic of Starks and Targaryens would ever stop leaving him with his mouth hanging open.

Her eyes drifted back to the top of the scroll, and down again. "Read this," Arya told him, passing the scroll over. The script looked odd to him: fine and practiced on some letters, but ragged on most of the others, like it were _made_ to be less elegant on purpose. With a glance at the Hound, he kept his mouth shut and read in silence.

_"Dearest sister,_

_The South has been a grand display so far, though I am eager to return as soon as I am done with my business here. Araleth has been a kind host to me, and so helpful. I am eager to hear your version, sweet sister, of how the two of you came to know one another, as it seems quite a tale, from her telling. I must be sure to seek passage aboard the Titan's Daughter myself, one day; perhaps I will make such an interesting friend there, as you once did._

_Forgive my brevity, but I must go to greet the sun, for the weather in the South is more than fair, and the people are a glittering dream, come to grace me. I pray this letter finds you well, and I am eager for the day I may share this place with you, though it may be longer than I expected before I can return to you._

_All my love,_ _Nera"_

Gendry passed it back when he was done, and she tucked it away in the fold of her cloak. "It's from the Queen," Arya said, urging their party on again, more quickly. The horses nickered, slipping here and there in the mud.

The Hound spoke up from behind, "The horses'll break an ankle at this pace, girl," he gruffed, "Long way to King's Landing on foot, assuming we ever get out this fucking bog alive."

"We're almost through it. And I'm not going to King's Landing," Arya replied, taking even Gendry by surprise. "Where the fuck-all are we going then," Sandor asked, "if not to put my brother and Cersei out of their misery?"

"The Saltpans. I know a Captain there. His ship will be the quickest way to Sunspear."

"As in, Dorne?" Gendry asked, and Arya looked at him. There was the usual darkness in her eye, and something less familiar, something older.

 _She's afraid..._ he realized, and his blood ran cold, _she had the same look on her face as when I left with the Red Woman..._ The glance lasted less than a heartbeat, and he barely caught the slight shake of her head. 

"I know it's a long way," Arya said, turning her eyes forward, abruptly casual, "but Daenerys is family now. Even if the Dornish have been kind to her, so far, she says she might be delayed. I have to make sure she's alright."

Remembering the shake of her head, Gendry knew her well enough not to ask for anything more. Instead, he nodded, "Dorne it is then," he agreed, honestly not giving a damn where he went, long as it was with her, and if he had any chance to help King Jon and Queen Daenerys, he would take it. "Heard it's nice, down there. I never been further South than–"

"Shut the fuck up. Tell me why we don't just turn around," Sandor offered, "ride back, and tell your brother, the bloody _dragonriding_ King of the Seven Kingdoms, that his wife might be in trouble?"

"Alright, that's _enough_ , old man," Gendry said, putting the Hound under a stern gaze. Sandor squared up, as if ready to rise, and deflated, muttering to himself about a fair fight. _Why doesn't she, though..._ he wondered, but unable to forget the look he had glimpsed on her, the slight shake of her head, he remembered better than to ask aloud.

"If I don't go and make sure she's alright, Jon will," Arya replied easily, "If Jon leaves the army even for a day, the Dothraki will defect, especially if they think Daenerys is in danger. They don't like how she left, and they can tell that Jon is already worried about her."

"I came south with you," the Hound growled, "so I could help you murder my shit older brother and his bloody Queen. Not for a rescue mission to the farthest corner of the continent, just to check up on a woman who's never seemed to need any bloody rescuing."

"I told you, that's enough!" Gendry snapped, and turned in his saddle to face him, "You can _do_ as you bloody-well _like_ , Sandor, don't you get that? Two days ago," Gendry reminded him, "you shown up to our campfire, piss drunk, cryin' like a little girl, sayin' you should'a died in the Long Night, and that you don't know how to be as good a man as Beric or Jon, do you remember that?"

Sandor squared up to the silence, glanced away, "I was sort of hoping you _wouldn't_ remember," he gruffed in reply.

"Well I do, pissed as I was. So quit your carping, and _turn back,_ if you like. I doubt the lizards would be much interested in you, filled with all your piss and vinegar. You want to be a better man? You listen to everything she says, and _fuck-all,_ Sandor, maybe try for a bit of politeness, yeah? If you don't, either we're gonna ride off alone, or I'm 'onna put my hammer in your face while you're sleeping, and leave you for the lizards."

Arya cast him a glance, and grinned slightly as she turned her eyes again to the shadowed swamp that hung all around them. Gendry beamed, sitting straighter in his saddle. The horses plucked along, another five wet, sucking steps.

"You should turn back," Arya said coolly after the pause.

"Oh, Gods, I get it! Alright, will you lay off? I'll help you get to Dorne..."

"I know you would, Sandor. You're a better man than you used to be," Arya said, still gazing around. The words were plain, Gendry thought, not kind, but not mean either, just her stating the fact as it was. "...But Daenerys might be late to the rendezvous at Harroway's Town, and Jon doesn't know that, and he won't know unless someone tells him. I need you to turn back," she said, resolute, "Tell Jon that the Three-Eyed Raven sent word that Daenerys is okay, but she might be delayed. Tell him that I'm going myself to find out if she's alright. Tell him in front of his advisors– Ser Davos and the others."

The Hound was quiet, for a beat. "Why can't we send him a raven?"

"Cersei has archers everywhere," she replied without missing a beat, "I don't think I'd have gotten word from Daenerys at all, if Bran didn't bring it to me himself."

Gendry's brow went up at that, but he kept his mouth shut. _She never called the Three-Eyed Raven 'Bran' before..._ the more he thought on it, the surer he was. _Not once..._

Arya went on, not seeming to notice what she had said, "I can't make the Raven come back. Even if I could, Jon's not one for coded letters, or for assuming things will be alright, if he doesn't intervene... He'll need some convincing. Will you help me, Sandor?"

The horses plodded along another dozen wet, squishing steps or so, before the Hound broke the quiet, "Will you meet me in the Capitol, when you're done looking in on the Queen?" The Hound asked, "We agreed, girl... I'd kill my brother and you'd kill Cersei. I mean to finish what we started."

"I will," Arya said, glancing away from the darkness to look him in the eyes.

"... Alright," the Hound sighed, "but if I get eaten by these bloody lizards in the night, on my way back to your brother, I hope you'll feel sorry for me."

"I will," Arya said again, no less resolutely, and added, "I promise..." The Hound stared for a beat, and nodded. "Take this. Give it to Jon," Arya added, and passed the Raven's massive feather to him.

The Hound took the feather with a grimace, tucked it away in his horse's pack, and after a final glance to Arya, he sighed. "Come on, Stranger," he said, pulling the stallion's lead to turn him about. "Glad you're a sure-footed old fucker, aren't you Stranger? You like those new shoes, do you? Come on, on you go," Gendry heard the Hound mumbling as he went off, back down the darkened trail.

"Is he still talking to his horse?" Gendry asked, after the Hound's mumblings faded. She nodded, but either she missed the jest or ignored it, and would not turn her eyes from the darkness beyond the narrow path. "People like to talk, when they're afraid," she said distantly.

"... Right, yeah," Gendry replied, unsure what else to say.

Arya gazed a moment longer, and he saw something glint in her eyes. He saw it happen sometimes, and had decided it was something she never used to do, before. "We should keep talking," she said at last, glancing at him. He was glad to see then, that there was more light in her expression. Sometimes, he noticed nowadays, she faded a bit, almost like she was somewhere else, and he liked to be the thing that pulled her back.

"... Cause you're afraid," Gendry assumed, grinning. "And because when I'm talking, I make you feel safe, because you care about me, deeply?"

She glared at his grin until her smile cracked through, "Yes," she said, and cast a cool look around, "And cause you're the only thing making noise in this swamp that doesn't want to kill us both."

"You don't say," he laughed. There were enough broken branches, red eyes, errant hisses, and rogue splashes in the eldritch swamp to make a grown man's skin crawl, and for days now he had tried not to wonder what the noisy bog sounded like, to _her_ ear.

"... Why didn't you say anything else about the letter?" Gendry asked. "Sandor's goin' back to tell your brother everything's alright with the Queen but... I dunno, the letter seemed weird," he hedged, and Arya would not reply, "... And you seem worried," Gendry finished.

"I don't _know_ an Araleth..." 

When she looked at him, the worry was back on her face. "Someone's lying to her... Daenerys said the people were like a dream," she added, as if he was supposed to know what that meant, and explained after she observed his confusion, "She knows something's wrong, but she doesn't know what it is. Or who," she paused thoughtfully, "she can't decide if Araleth is a friend or not..."

"You got all that, from what she wrote?"

"If someone was going to murder the Queen..." Arya asked, experimenting with the words as she said them, "why would they wait so long?" The way she whispered to herself, he knew she had no more an answer to the question than he did.

"Are you _sure_ you shouldn't tell your brother? He's a good man, reasonable," Gendry offered. Keeping secrets from a man he considered half a brother already felt more than a bit wrong, let alone that the man being kept in the dark was also the King. "I dunno what I'd do to the man who kept it secret from me, that you were in trouble."

"Jon's less reasonable than you think," Arya replied, fond and nervous at once. "You didn't... see him, at Castle Cerwyn," she added.

A sharp hiss hardly announced the lizard lion, charging from the brush. The horses screamed, and Gendry pulled his mount's head hard to one side. He pulled his hammer off his saddle, and hauled it straight down on top of the beast's ugly, triangular head, sparing his horse's ankle by an inch or two. The lizard hissed, shook itself violently, and ran for the brush.

On it went, the most exhilarating night of his life, he figured, and once the Hound had gone, it seemed to pass in a blink. They talked all the while, and for her sake, the blacksmith did his best to keep the conversation light. _Plenty of time between here and Dorne to talk about nefarious plots,_ he figured, and better to do it from the comfort of a ship's cabin than a gloomy swamp, where she could hear ten times as he did, the number of creatures that wanted them dead for a meal.

After another half dozen lizard-lions narrowly avoided, and only because the wolf-girl heard their coming ahead of time, the slight incline sharpened to a long, sloped hill. At its crest, the wet sucking of hooves that had plagued them for days on end turned to a soft thudding on damp earth, then again to a familiar clopping over smooth, raised cobble.

"Gods, you learn to take that sound for granted," Gendry said with a yawn, breaking the quiet that had hung for the better part of an hour. He took a grateful breath of clean air, hoping to never smell another swamp as long as he lived. The yearling mounts seemed to appreciate the shored-footing and fresh air as much as himself, and walked with tall, proud necks, and jaunts in their step. It was nearly dawn by the time they had freed themselves of the swamp, and the sky above the Riverlands had taken on the silver light that announced the coming of the sunrise.

Arya leaned forward, and patted her splendid bay on the nape of his neck. "You ready Ned?" The stallion's step grew quicker, more eager at the sound of his name. She turned to grin at him, and Gendry nodded reply, stretching his shoulders and adjusting his seat.

"...Go on then," she said, giving the horse his head, and began a sprint that he knew would not slow until they reached the dock at Saltpans.

***

The rustling of the tent flap was all it took, to rouse Jon from his uneasy slumber. "Ser Davos?" Jon wondered, "What time is it?"

"Late as the devil's due, Your Grace," Ser Davos gruffed in reply. "Sandor Clegane says he needs to see you and the rest of us, straight away."

 _Arya..._ With a pit in his stomach, Jon threw his bed furs off himself. _If he let her die in that swamp..._ he could hardly finish the thought as he wrested himself into his long overcoat of dark wool and wrapped his sword belt about his waist. "Send everyone in," Jon commanded, and Ser Davos ducked through the tent flap.

The Dragonlords entered first, all looking as tired as they ought to, at such an hour, and as soon as the Hound entered the tent himself, Jon was on him. "My sister–"

"She's alright, last I saw," the Hound replied. "She sent me back to bring you this," the Hound passed him a feather: longer than his torso, dark as a starless sky, "We got word from the Three-Eyed Raven," the Hound explained to his wide-eyed look, drawing his eye from the feather, so large it could _only_ come from the same bird, "She says the Queen's alright in Dorne, but she might be delayed to the rendezvous."

Jon glanced, wild-eyed, between the feather and the man who had dared the swamps alone, in the dead of night, to bring it to him. "If this is a trick, and I find out you left my sister for dead in the swamps..."

"Why would I come back, then?" Sandor asked, and sighed at the pause, "Look, I know I've done some truly horrible shit over the years, but your sister's a good sort, and she's even more stubborn than I am. I just... want to help her, that's all," the Hound mumbled, shifting his weight.

The King glanced to Ser Davos, "Well," the old man offered, "if he murdered your sister after all, it'd be an odd move then, comin' back..."

"Say what you want about me," the Hound grumbled, "I deserve it. But she's the last person on Gods' green earth I'd want to murder..."

Jon glanced at the feather again, set it carefully on his desk, and demanded the Hound tell him everything that had happened, between when they had left and now.

"We only rode an hour before that great black bird showed up, screaming its head off," the Hound began, and ticked through the rest, point for point; the Queen sent word through the Raven, saying she was well, and that Dorne was treating her kindly, but that she would be late to meeting in Harroway's Town; that Arya was heading straight away to Dorne, to make certain that Daenerys was just well off as the letter had implied.

The longer he listened, the less Jon believed the Hound would have risked coming all the way back through the marsh alone just to weave such an unbelievable lie. All the while, the Raven's gargantuan pinfeather glared at him, from the desk, confirming even the most unlikely pieces of the Hound's story. "Leave us," Jon commanded, and the burned man nodded and obliged without another word.

"I've got to make sure," Jon mumbled to himself, snatching a traveling bag from a peg.

"Your Grace," Davos began in caution, and began a relentless onslaught from his advisers, each arguing against his leaving for the better part of an hour, each voicing arguments sound enough that eventually, he quit packing after a long, lingering look at the Raven's pinfeather. Quite unhappily, he decided that even _if_ the Hound was capable of telling such an extravagant lie, not to mention daft enough to dare a lie in the first place, it was not worth Daenerys' fury if her King should let the Dothraki defect, given that each of the Dragonlords as well as the High Priestess seemed certain that they would, given any opportunity.

He remembered the promise he had made to Daenerys at the Tower of Joy, that he would trust her: the same promise he had made to Arya as children, though the words had never been said aloud. All he wanted was to leave, to be with Daenerys or Arya, to make certain that both were alive and well, as everyone else seemed to think. 

Feeling torn between what he wanted, and what he knew he must do, he took the Raven's pinfeather from his desk and collapsed onto his bed to think, staring at the tent leathers, and twirling the quill between his fingers.

_His eyes opened, and he raised his head to look over the courtyard. Tall palm fronds swayed in the evening breeze, and the hot, dry air pressed comfortably to his skin. Daenerys was there, dressed in flowing crimson silks, seated at the table, laughing with a copper-skinned woman over a steaming pot of tea. When the dragon raised his head, she glanced over._

_"Hello, sweet thing," Daenerys murmured, and the other woman glanced over with wide, delighted eyes. "How quietly, he sings," the woman awed, and then addressed the dragon himself, "So it is true, your eyes alone are a sight to make all the wonders of the world seem dull and colorless. May I touch him, Your Grace?" The woman wondered, turning back to the Queen._

_"No," Daenerys replied, her lips twinging in a smile, "soon, perhaps."_

_The woman laughed, "Just so. Perhaps another time is best," she replied, "You named him for your first husband, yes? You must tell me more of your time, in the Great Grass Sea," the woman reminded her, and Daenerys glanced away from the dragon, smiling at the copper-skinned woman across the table, poised to reply._

The scent of something burning roused Jon awake, and his eyes opened back to the tent leathers that hung over his head. Pressed between his fingers, all that remained of the Raven's feather was a short, singed quill and a curling tendril of smoke, still drifting in the air. 


	54. The Princess and the Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Daenerys waits to meet with the Princess of Dorne._

Over the sprawling city of Sunspear, the opal waters of its coast, the River Greenblood, and the vast desert stretching countless miles to the west, the sun dropped away from the world. To the east, the half-moon rose in the darkest part of the sun's lasting light, where singed green faded to deep indigo, and a spatter of stars. As the moon rose, so arose a melancholy in Daenerys, for by now she had meant to gaze upon this same moon at the tourney in Harroway's Town, with Jon by her side, and the alliance of the Seven Kingdoms against Cersei Lannister within their reach.

On the sandstone patio which wrapped about the cottage, centered in the Palace courtyard, Daenerys sat quietly with Araleth, while the Braavosi poured another pair of stone mugs full of fresh, spiced tea, as she had done each morning and eve for two fortnights; each time the woman poured, she shared more agreeable reports from the Princess of Dorne, and at last the Princess had agreed to meet and discuss terms of peace, an alliance.

The Braavosi serving woman took the first taste of the tea, then set a stone mug down, with practiced hands before the Silver Queen.

"You are troubled," Araleth observed, taking an easy seat across the table. Per her usual, she was grinning, "This should not be so. Good tidings and just rewards come always to the patient, and the Princess of Dorne is most eager to reveal herself to you. All her country awaits to rejoice in the alliance you will strike tomorrow."

 _Tomorrow..._ The Queen smiled and nodded while her hands tightened in her lap, beneath the layers of crimson silk. The Braavosi could only be speaking the truth of the Dornish people; the many days Daenerys had spent among nobles and commoners both, in the Water Gardens, had led to a change throughout Sunspear's sun-baked streets. Now there hung hundreds of banners hung dark as night, emblazoned with the red dragon of House Targaryen. And tomorrow, the alliance of Dorne to the Seven Kingdoms would be struck in truth between the Princess, and the Queen.

 _Tomorrow..._ Daenerys took a slow sip of her tea. Somehow it seemed such a long time to wait... _to keep waiting,_ Daenerys thought with a smooth blink of her eyes. Thus far, nearly every noble of Dorne had offered Daenerys a well-honored guest right, and the sun shining through the boughs above the Water Gardens and drenching the city streets had brought a welcomed tanning of her skin, but the unanswered question of Dorne's reigning Princess weighed heavily on her mind.

She took a slow breath. "Princess Sarella must have been very frightened," Daenerys offered at last, "to watch me so carefully before even agreeing to meet."

"Just so," Araleth replied sadly, "Sarella was _far_ from what one would call a 'practiced' Princess. More bastard than Princess, until all the Sand Snakes made themselves dead, leaving the last of Oberyn's bastards to take the throne in Sunspear... a place she had never been, but in passing..." Araleth trailed off a beat, and took a sip of her tea. "And," the Braavosi went on, in an easier manner, "when Sarella found herself growing foolish for her fear of you, and your dragon," she added, casting an awed glance at Drogon, draped asleep over the Palace wall, "...she was _most_ curious."

"Curious?" Daenerys asked cooly.

The Braavosi nodded, as if it were obvious. "Surely when your bargain is struck with Dorne, you will take your dragon and go, to do what such a woman of your position must do," she spoke the words with great pride, Daenerys observed, "To liberate the world of Cersei Lannister, and the others who would follow her example... I think that tomorrow, Princess Sarella will beg your forgiveness for her hesitance."

_Tomorrow..._

Daenerys glanced to the West, where the light still clung to the sky. Despite all manner of comfort the Braavosi offered, the word clawed at her; it was too long to wait, after all time spent here, nearly twice as long as she had intended, and there had been no news of her army since her arrival in Dorne. In recent weeks, only one raven in twenty seemed to survive a flight over the Crownlands, and she ached for news of Jon. With no word at all in weeks, only the magic in their blood made Daenerys certain that Jon was alive. Daenerys turned her eyes back to Araleth, who turned her gaze back from the sleeping shadow slung over the Palace wall.

"I cannot fault her hesitance," the Queen offered with careful honesty, realizing she had taken some time to reply. "When I married Khal Drogo, Ser Jorah made certain I knew... that at any moment, Drogo might be challenged... defeated... and then, I would be stripped of everything I had only just come to possess, and be sent to the Temple in _Vaes Dothrak,_ to live out my life as _Dosh Khaleen_."

"I am certain they would have tried, at least," Araleth said with a coy grin, taking a sip of her tea.

"They did," Daenerys corrected the woman, though she was unable to help her smile, "When I fled an ambush by the Sons of the Harpy, Khal Pono took me prisoner, and brought me to the Temple, _'where Drogo's widow belonged.'_ "

Araleth made a hoarse sound, deep in the back of her throat.

"How desperate some men are," she spat, "to sequester a woman who knows, who has _proven_ her worth... I have heard this of you," Araleth admitted, and went on, "It is said that in _Vaes Dothrak_ , you trap the _Khals_ in this Temple with you, and burn all to ash and dust... It is said that the Dragon Queen stepped from the flames once more, Unburnt."

The Queen schooled her look to one of neutrality, as much as she could muster, while the dying screams of the _Khals,_ burning alive, rang grimly in her ear.

Araleth smiled, and raised her stone mug in toast, grinning widely.

"Then the world is rid of them," she said gladly, "Their wives and daughters free of them, and their sons will learn nothing of their ways," Araleth added with a twisted laugh. Taken aback yet again by the woman's boldness, Daenerys giggled a bit, and raised her cup in turn, tapping it lightly to Araleth's in what she now knew to be the Braavosi fashion.

At the touch of the mugs, Drogon raised his head with a sharp blast of hot air. Delighted, Daenerys glanced over, as her dragon blinked thrice, each time less wearily, and then raised his head higher to observe the courtyard, glancing from the palm fronds whispering in the evening breeze, to the low-roofed stone cottage, to the half-hung moon, and finally, to his mother.

With a sweet croon, Drogon leaned closer. There was the familiar, raging love in his eyes, and something else hidden, a spark somewhere deep within them, and it held her fast, even seemed to speak to her...

"Hello, sweet thing," Daenerys said, and Drogon leaned closer to her, his eyes burning, fierce and calm at once. He whistled, a long and rolling sigh that cut short at the touch of her hand to his cheek.

"How quietly, he sings!" Araleth breathed mesmerized; she had not seen Drogon wake, not once since their arrival, some weeks ago. At the sound of her voice, the dragon turned his eye and regarded her keenly, "So it is true," Araleth breathed, "... your eyes alone are a sight, to make all the wonders of the world seem dull and colorless..." The Braavosi's eyes were wide and reverent, fixed on the dragon, with one hand perched as if to reach forward. She seemed to remember herself, and glanced to the Queen. "May I touch him, Your Grace?"

"No," Daenerys answered verily, "soon, perhaps."

 _If she is false,_ Daenerys thought, _then Drogon will end her where she stands, should she approach..._ That event would do little to aid her favor with the Princess, who had only just agreed to meet, and discuss terms of an alliance. Drogon had gone quiet, but still he looked at her importantly, as if he would not break gaze until his intent was understood.

The Braavosi laughed, took her half-reaching hand back again to wrap it around her mug, and settled both in her lap, "Just so. Perhaps another time is best. You named him for your first husband, yes? You must tell me more of your time, in the Great Grass Sea..."

The words seemed no less polite than anything else Araleth had offered her, but locked as Daenerys was in Drogon's gaze, they sounded muffled. Empty. _Words are wind..._ Daenerys remembered, though the thought came in Jon's cool voice. Drogon kept his eyes on her, still and calm, and Daenerys grew more bold in the strange hidden light, shining behind the labyrinth of colors in the dragon's eye. A strange air came over her, and she turned a cool gaze to the Braavosi, who looked back curiously.

For weeks now, Daenerys had played along, as if unaware and unconcerned with all the strangeness in Dorne: the absent Princess, the willing subjects, and the strangely bold Braavosi who had pronounced herself a friend, to dragons and wolves both.

"Who are you?" Daenerys asked plainly, and the woman tilted her head; her brow furrowed. "Do not pretend to misunderstand me," the Dragon Queen warned softly.

"And don't lie," a low, familiar voice warned. When both turned to look, Arya stood before Drogon, as if she had been there all the while. The wolf-girl stood casually, except for the dagger she twirled idly in one hand.

Shocked, Daenerys stood slowly, and turned a hard eye back to Araleth, whose face split had into a wide grin. "It is good to see a girl alive and well," Araleth said easily, her eye twinkling as if she meant every word for truth.

"Go on then," Arya urged, her tone as deadly neutral as the look on her. "Tell her who you are."

The Braavosi nodded agreeably, and turned to face the Queen; Daenerys watched with wide eyes as the woman cast her gaze down, seemingly embarrassed, and knelt at once.

"First," Araleth began, glancing up as she did, "I am arrogant, to assume I could deceive for a moment, a woman of such keenness..."

The Braavosi had lost all trace of her usual grin, and instead wore a look of contrition; her brow furrowed intently, her jaw clenched, tight and nervous. Daenerys watched on with hard eyes, and Araleth turned her eyes down again, "Second... I am... all that I have said," Daenerys arched a brow, "... a woman of Braavos, who is called Araleth, one who sailed as First Mate aboard the Titan's Daughter, and met a young girl named Arya Stark many years past..."

The Queen glanced to Arya, who did not look away from the Braaovsi to offer in reply, a short, certain nod. "And third," the Braavosi went on, still kneeling before her, looking straight into her eye.

"... I am Sarella Sand, Princess of Dorne."

"You told me your name was Sarella, when we first met," Arya observed, helping the Queen to piece the gaps in their story. Daenerys swallowed her confusion and took a breath, and watched their exchange with keen, calm eyes. "That's why I didn't know your name. Your sailors only ever called you Sir," Arya recalled.

"Captain Ternesio insisted on this," Sarella replied with a grin, saying the name with as much reverence as she had every time prior. "However at port, and in all matters of secrecy... the Braavosi name Araleth suited me well..."

"I never heard them call her Araleth," Arya said, half to herself, and half again to Daenerys. "You're a good liar," Arya mentioned, a low growl wrapped within the cool praise.

Araleth grinned under bashful eyes, and bowed. "A girl hears more now than she used to, I am sure, since her time in the House of Black and White..."

"Why lie about your name?" Arya asked.

Every moment their conversation went on, Daenerys felt less present, and less willing to interrupt before Arya had pulled the whole story from the woman's willing lips. Keeping her silence, she only let them speak, glazing between the two with stony composure. Behind her shoulder, Drogon watched on with the same silent intensity.

"Before I sailed with Ternesio, I called myself by my father's name. The men I sailed with heard this, the name _Sarella Sand_ , and thought I was known to them: The Dornishman's Daughter, _the Princess_ ," the woman laughed, "And there I was, born and raised of Braavos, fourth or more in line to a palace I did not desire, to a land I had never seen except for the coast as it slid past the deckboards of my country... Ternesio suggests that I change my name to one of Braavos, and sail the seas as a Braavosi. For years his advice is sound and prosperous for me... but the Gods work freely in Braavos. After Robert Baratheon dies, each time I return to the ports of the Secret City, I learn another heir of House Martell was killed. Doran, Oberyn, Trystane, the Sand Snakes all... leaving a Braavosi sailor as the last of the blood of House Martell."

 _The blood of House Martell,_ Daenerys thought distantly, _all of whom trace their lineage to my namesake, the first Daenerys..._ It dawned on her then, that the woman kneeling before her was family, in some small way.

"The Sand Snakes were younger than you," Arya observed, interrupting the thought, "even Ellaria was younger than you. Sunspear was supposed to be yours, as soon as Prince Tystane died."

"The Maester here did write to me then," Sarella admitted, "But who was I to rule in this land I did not call home, when the Sand Snakes, who had lived their whole lives in Dorne, had pronounced that it was theirs by right? To oppose them would mean a war... and years had passed already, since I had come to serve Captain Ternesio, and taken a new name... Most of Dorne was not sure I lived, by the time I was called on to become the Princess of Dorne, at last."

"You abdicated," Arya summed neatly, and Arelth grinned. "Just so," the Braavosi admitted. "But no more," she added more seriously, and turned to Daenerys; she bowed her head.

"I have misled you. I told you this very night, that the Princess would beg your forgiveness... and I do. Look into my eyes and know this: all I have said of myself: of Araleth of Braavos, and the Princess of Dorne both, was said to you in truth. My claim on Dorne was brittle at best... I am with child... and for this and for the lies of your enemies, I feared your power... I feared your dragons, and your husband, Jon Snow, who is said to be a man as fierce as men come... If you will forgive my abuse of your kindness, I swear to serve you for all of my life. Dorne is yours, Your Grace," Araleth vowed, bowing her head.

"She helped me," Arya said quickly, before the Queen's mouth could open. Arya did not flinch when Daenerys met her gaze. "When everyone else wanted to kill me... or worse."

Daenerys spoke at last. Each word came as a hiss wrapped in stone, " _And she lied._ "

"Not exactly," Arya said, shifting her feet without breaking gaze, "she omitted the truth, but it's different than lying."

"Is it?" Daenerys wondered serenely, and turned a cool expression to the Dornish Princess, who still knelt upon the ground, unwilling to rise until she had been bid to. 

"... Drogon."

The dragon broke at last from his stony perch upon the Palace wall. Sarella's eyes bulged while a prolonged hiss rushed from between his teeth. The dragon lurched forward with sudden ferocity, baring silver fangs taller than a man grown, eyes blazing with fury and fire. Still as stone, the Princess of Dorne remained fixed in place, kneeling before the dragon's mercy.

Drogon brought his lip alongside the kneeling woman and shrieked, snapping his jaws in place. Sarella flinched, then settled and kept wide eyes open, as if frozen in place. Drogon pulled back, his fangs bared, dripping silver fluid that sent steam whisking from the moist earth of the palace courtyard. He raised his wings, towering jaws parted, and he lunged for the Braavosi with a scream that shook the earth.

Sarella put her hands over her face and cowered, shrinking down to the smallest version of herself and bumping sharply against the patio table, sending both mugs spilling over before they shattered on the stone. The sounds of broken dishware were lost in Drogon's fury, and the liquid left behind steamed, hot again in the heat of his breath, in the cooling night air.

With a final hiss, Drogon pulled back, and looked intently to his mother. He settled, and turned his gaze intently to the sky above. Motionless. _Perhaps she is family, after all,_ Daenerys wondered, burying a hopeful smile beneath fresh and staying anger.

"I'm _sorry_ ," Sarella begged, her face pressed to the earth, whimpering as her hands wrapped over her waist. Daenerys watched as she sobbed, the cloth of her dress pulled tight as the Braavosi Princess cowered, silk stretched over the bump at her waist. Sarella sobbed, clutching her unborn child, whimpering apologies and begging forgiveness, just as _'Araleth'_ had said the Dornish Princess would do.

"You told me," Daenerys began gravely, "that in this world, _trust_ is a hard-won thing..." The woman quieted at once, and turned wide, wet eyes up from the earth.

"And you're right," the Queen went on, "all my life, I have chosen to place trust in some few people. Often as not, I suffered for it. My enemies would use those I trusted against me... People I have loved... _murdered_... just for their proximity to me. Others that I've trusted," Daenerys went on, her voice dropping low, "simply _lied,_ and betrayed me outright."

The Queen let her words hang, and wisely, Sarella watched with helpless, sorry eyes.

"I want you to remember now," Daenerys offered in a soft voice, "all that I have done these last few weeks to earn your trust... And all that you have done, to lose mine."

"I... wanted, desperately," Sarella murmured, "to trust you from the first... But I am not so brave, as the Mother of Dragons... not half as keen as the Faceless Men... I am a Braavosi sailor," the Princess sobbed, "I cannot know truth from lie at first utterance, as young Arya Stark."

"I test people the same way," Arya mentioned, the first she had spoken in some time. Arya spoke not to Sarella, but the Queen. Daenerys held her eye, still as stone, and Arya returned the look with an unflinching stare. 

"Jon trusts you," Daenerys said slowly, "so for now, I will _choose_ to believe you," she told Arya, making no mention of trust or forgiveness to the Dornish Princess, but turned a cold eye to her, "and when the war is won, I am sure I will know the value and... validity of your _friendship_ ," she hissed the word, and went on in a low gowl, "I would advise, _Princess..._ that you do not give me another reason to doubt your intentions."

Drogon hissed again, sharp and sudden, and the Braavosi woman flinched. With a glance at the dragon, Sarella rose from her cower and knelt properly, her eyes resolute and reverent, her back straight and shoulders squared.

"Dorne is with you," Sarella vowed, and her lips twinged at the edges, as if in secret. "The Dornish armies... and the _Free Fleet of Braavos_ are yours to command, Daenerys Stormborn... _Slayer of Lies._ " 


End file.
